


Advent Calendar 2016

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221 Baker Street, Advent Calendar, Adventure, Christmas Lights, Christmas fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Grumpy John, Grumpy Sherlock, John likes Christmas, London, M/M, Sexy John, Sexy Sherlock, Sexy Times, Sherlock... well, Snow, advent fic, christmas calendar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 22,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: John wants a real Christmas for once. Sherlock ... well





	1. December 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the annual Christmas Calendar fic - this time I'm writing it on my own. 24 plus 1 ficlets which lead up to Christmas.  
> I hope you enjoy :)

"Sherlock?" John looked up from his newspaper, across the desk, at Sherlock, who was currently trying very hard not to yawn for the third time in a single minute. John had forbidden him to tell him again that he was bored, so Sherlock had changed his strategy. 

"Hmm?" he asked around a yawn which he suddenly couldn't hold back. He had the decency to look bashful. 

"I want a real Christmas this year."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock frowned, if only to do something with his face. He stopped frowning after John's lips twitched in amusement.

"A real Christmas, you know, sentiment."

"Oh," Sherlock looked disgusted for a moment, but reigned that expression in as well, leaning forward as if he had changed his mind about his pretended dislike for sentiment.

"What does that entail?"

"I know your mind just skipped all the traditions and went right into the bedroom," John said disapprovingly, but then he set down the paper and leaned his elbows on it, cupping his chin with his hands as Sherlock resisted the urge to defend himself. "Well, I want a tree, and baking, and a proper Christmas dinner, here, not with your family. I do not want to witness the crisis that comes when your parents try to give ... force a new umbrella on your brother. Never. Again."

Sherlock nodded, clearly remembering last year's disaster. "So, a tree. We can do that. We have done trees before. Baking. Hmm, yes, I suppose. As for the dinner, we could ask Mrs Hudson ..:"

"To join us, as for once we will do the cooking."

"We will?"

John gave him the most judgmental look he could manage while his face was resting between his hands. "We will."

"What else?"

"Just, you know, Christmas."

"We did have that Christmas Party when we invited Molly and Lestrade..."

John signed and leaned back in his chair. "That was a terrible Christmas."

"Because you were jealous." Sherlock stated, carefully, knowing that he was wading into murky waters. They had never really talked about that day. 

"I was worried. There's a difference. And you were an absolute cock to everybody that evening, including me."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, but he did not try to defend himself. "Possibly. You were still jealous."

"What makes you say that?"

"Irene, for one. And, well, your _girlfriend_ Jeanette."

"You remember her name."

"Well, she did make quite an impression."

"You were doing it on purpose then."

"John. She was me, as a woman. Her style. Come on, John. She kept her collar up. Her height, for god's sake she was a dancer, too."

"Interesting how you noticed these things without ever saying a word."

Sherlock's jaw was working for a moment before he inhaled. "Well, she did break up with you that night."

"Exactly. A shit Christmas. I want a real one."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded. "Hmm."

"Is that a yes?"

"I don't know, John. I don't know if ... you know me. I can't promise you anything."

"You can promise to try and keep it in mind?"

"Right."

"Good. Thank you." John picked up the paper again and continued reading. Or trying to. Sherlock had manipulated him into behaving abominably to Jeanette so she would break up with him. That was new information for him and, in hindsight, he wanted to kiss Sherlock for it.


	2. December 2

“Wait!” John said, stopping in the middle of the crisps aisle of their local Sainsbury’s. 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turned around with a dramatic flourish of his coat, pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels once. John momentarily forgot his thoughts and made sure to save just that image as an antidote to those moments when he was irrationally annoyed by or angry with Sherlock. Which happened. A lot. 

“Wha’?” Sherlock asked and John frowned at his very audible silent t.

“You are in a good mood,” he realised, cocking his head. “Why?”

“No particular reason,” Sherlock shrugged. “But, that is not the reason why you stopped me.”

“No. And I did not want to stop you, not really. I just wondered about something you said yesterday.”

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”

“Irene. You said I was jealous of Irene.”

“Weren’t you?”

John scratched his chin. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“John,” Sherlock stepped closer. “She affected me. That bothered you.”

“Just how much time did you spend analysing my behaviour in the past?”

Sherlock exhaled audibly. “A bit. I can’t help it. I don’t forget, you know I don’t.”

“Not things you find important, no,” John smiled and took one step towards him, having to look up now in order to look into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Quite,” Sherlock said, lowering his chin. 

“But I wasn’t really…”

“Because you realised that she did not affect me in the way she intended?”

“She wasn’t Jeanette, but she was quite similar to you, too.”

“Intelligent?”

“Attractive. Ruthless. Quick witted. Desperate for attention.” He whispered the final words and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I fancied her, a bit.”

“But you were also jealous.”

“Because you turned away from me, yes. You wrote a piece of utterly heartbreaking music for her.”

“You fancied her, really?” Sherlock didn’t seem to be able to imagine that. Or, possibly, he wanted to avoid sorting through the truly complicated emotions that she had unleashed in him and which had affected him deeply. Most of all, it had made him understand that John was loyal to him, no matter what. And that he worried about him, too. Something he had not truly understood until he had overheard him and Irene in Battersea. “You didn’t show any of the signs.”

John chuckled and walked past him, making sure his hand brushed the front of his trousers as he did. Sherlock huffed. 

Then he sniffed and followed John. “You gave me her phone,” he finally said, quietly, while John scanned their shopping at the self check-out.

“I understood that you wanted to keep something of hers.”

“Hmm.”

“Sentiment.”

“I don’t do … well, I don’t.”

John grinned at him and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Of course not. Do you still have it?”

“No. I gave it back.”

“What, to Mycroft?” 

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

John stopped in his movement after he had scanned a bottle of milk, resulting in the machine’s urgent reminder to please place the item in the bagging area. “To her? When? I thought she had …”

“We had an encounter, later on. She needed my help. I offered my services and I returned her phone.”

Despite it all, John had to smirk. “I’m sure she enjoyed your _services_.”

“I saved her life.” Sherlock did not stoop down to amuse John with a reaction to his joke. 

“Did she offer her services?” John asked, not joking this time. 

“Yes. I declined.”

John exhaled through his nose and silenced the machine by placing the milk in its designated place. “Good. How come you never told me about that?”

“I wasn’t sure how you would take the news.”

“I would have been happy for you. I know you cared for her, despite it all.”

“Only you, John,” Sherlock said, leaving John to interpret what exactly he meant by that as he picked up the shopping and walked away while John picked up his change which came pouring out of the machine.


	3. December 3

“John? Where are you?”

John came down the stairs, balancing two boxes with Christmas ornaments which he had produced from his old room. “I’m here. Something wrong?”

“No.” 

“Then why do you a…” he stopped mid-sentence, finding a half naked Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room for no apparent reason. “Umm.” 

“John, good, you’re here.” Sherlock took the boxes from him and placed them on the coffee table before turning back to him. “I have an idea.”

John crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Enlighten me.”

“As you are undoubtedly aware, I have been quite bored lately.”

“Quite, quite bored,” John mocked him by copying his tone of voice. Nevertheless, Sherlock simply nodded. 

“Yes, so, I thought, maybe it is not the lack of cases alone which is keeping me in this state.”

“Didn’t you just spend half a day at Bart’s dissecting a man whose cause of death has …”

“Not yet been identified. Yes. Anyway, I was wondering if it might also be related to the fact that we have not had sex in five days and four hours.”

“Care to enlighten me as to the minutes and seconds?” John smirked and made his way over to where Sherlock stood only in trousers and socks.

“I did not pay more attention to the time until you sent me off to the shower quite rudely.”

“Sherlock, can we possibly take this conversation to the bedroom?”

“Why?”

“Because the door to the hall is open and behind you I can see our neighbours smoking by the window, watching us right now.”

“Right. Well. Lead the way.”

John chuckled as he turned around and made a bee line for their bedroom. He waited until Sherlock had walked in behind him before he closed the door and locked it. Just to make sure. 

Sherlock watched him with interest. 

“You were in a good mood yesterday,” John noted, leaning back against the door, watching Sherlock getting to work on his trousers. 

“I was, yes, for a while.”

“Why?”

“I was thinking about your Christmas.”

“My Christmas?”

Sherlock smiled and nodded. “Yes.” He looked genuinely happy for a moment. 

“That’s all the information I am going to get, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. Now come over here. You are wearing far too many clothes.”

Giggling, John walked up to him and unceremoniously dropped his trousers. Then he toed off his shoes and socks to be able to step out of them. Keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, he unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, his t-shirt following a second later. “Better?” he asked when he stood naked in a puddle of clothes. 

Sherlock gave a long satisfied sigh and hurried to get rid of his own trousers. “After you,” he gestured at the bed and playfully slapped John’s arse when he turned to go. 

John was quite happy with Sherlock’s decision to stop being bored and do something about his frustration, and as they lay on the bed, in the middle of the day, legs tangled and hands quietly caressing, John turned to look at him with a smile. “Are you planning something special for Christmas?”

“I’m not telling you,” Sherlock replied and grinned, first at him, then at the ceiling. 

“Should I worry?”

“I’ll not feed you anything poisonous or something that might have a negative influence on your health.”

“Thank God for small favours,” John chuckled and kissed his shoulder. “I’d quite fancy a Christmas pudding.”

“Is that code?” Sherlock asked, looking back at him with a spark in his eyes. 

John laughed and climbed on top of him, making sure that Sherlock would most definitely not be bored in the foreseeable future.


	4. December 4

Sherlock sat up in bed with a gasp and immediately dropped down again, pressing his face against John’s stomach, making him giggle. 

“We overslept,” Sherlock murmured against his skin and John wondered why neither of them was covered by the down blanket and sheet anymore. They must have moved a lot during the night. 

“Umm, it’s Sunday, do we have to be anywhere?” John yawned and pushed his hand into Sherlock’s hair. “While you’re down there, could you possibly, you know?” he added after Sherlock did not explain himself. 

“I thought it was Christmas Day,” he finally admitted. “I must have dreamt of it.”

“It seems to be occupying your mind quite a bit,” John noted, gently massaging Sherlock’s scalp, drawing contented sounds from him. 

“Well, you rarely ask for something that specific.”

“I wasn’t that specific.”

“Are you talking about Christmas now, or the outstanding blowjob.”

John laughed and tugged at Sherlock’s hair until he moved up to kiss him. “How about you make that an _outstanding_ blowjob.” 

Sherlock scrunched up his nose in pretended annoyance but John could tell he was amused. Three days of Sherlock being in a good mood was quite the treat – and if it had to do with John’s wish for a proper Christmas, all the better. If he was honest, he had expected Sherlock to be stressed out by it, like he had been in preparation for his wedding. The second option would have been to forget it entirely and only remember when John would mention it a couple of days before Christmas, leading to Sherlock stressing out after all and possibly disappearing. 

But this, this was actually quite pleasant. Especially as now Sherlock had decided to fulfil John’s second wish, too, and slowly kissed his way south. 

It did not take long for John to come apart under Sherlock’s lips and hands, and when Sherlock sat up, wiping his lips with something like pride, John curled up around him and refused to move for the better part of an hour. 

Strangely enough, Sherlock seemed to be entirely okay with their slightly awkward arrangement on the bed. He pulled the blanket around himself, covering John’s back, too, and then simply sat there, his hands pressed together under his chin, disappearing in his own mind. 

John drifted off into sleep again and only woke when the doorbell rang. 

“We’re not expecting clients,” Sherlock noted, remaining entirely still. 

John placed a wet kiss against his stomach before he moved away, allowing Sherlock to rise just when a loud knock came from the bedroom door. “Whohoo, boys, are you up? You have a visitor.” Mrs Hudson sounded entirely too happy. 

“Must be Lestrade,” Sherlock concluded loudly and then opened the door and walked out, naked. 

John chuckled at Mrs Hudson’s disapproving “oh, Sherlock!” before he rolled off the bed, pulled on his jeans and yesterday’s button down shirt without bothering with any other clothes and followed Sherlock outside. 

He had been right, John noted with a relieved sigh. Lestrade had brought coffee, probably to make up for calling on them on a Sunday, and a file which Sherlock was currently reading with interest. 

“John, we have a triple homicide. At least a seven. Let’s go.”

Everyone in the room stared at Sherlock for a moment, waiting for him to close the file with a snap and make for the door. John allowed himself to enjoy that thought for a second before he remembered that it was just above zero degrees and raining outside.

“Do put on some socks at least?” he suggested instead. 

Lestrade snorted and Mrs. Hudson winked at John before turning around to leave them to their own devices. 

“Right,” Sherlock looked down on himself. “This won’t do.”

“Make yourself comfortable, will you? We’ll be back in a second,” John gestured from Lestrade to the couch before he took Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him into the bedroom. 

“That wasn’t necessary,” John said quietly as he pulled out a more fitting outfit to go outside from the wardrobe. 

“Dressing beforehand and having to wait to read the file would have been just as unnecessary.”

“Fine. Then let me put it into other words. I don’t want them to see you naked.”

Sherlock looked up as he finished buttoning up his shirt. “Why?”

“Because that is a privilege that only I want to get to enjoy.”

“You think of seeing me naked as a privilege?”

“Positively inspirational,” John nodded and gave him a quick but heated kiss. “Let’s go and solve some murder mystery.”


	5. December 5

John let himself fall into his chair with a sigh. It was just before midnight and they had been on their feet for almost two days straight. Sherlock had been punched in the face and his left cheek was swollen and sore, but they had managed to get hold of the murderer, even if it took some convincing. And John’s gun was very convincing when paired with his silent anger after the man had dared to hit Sherlock and brought him to his knees. 

Sherlock had been the opposite of bored, but John had to force himself to not let the butt of his gun connect with the man’s temple when he saw the first signs of swelling on Sherlock’s cheek. 

Lestrade had shown up fifteen minutes later and John had tried to breathe through his rage, ordering Sherlock curtly to get some ice from the nearest Pret. 

Now, after the arrest, and after giving statements, John was glad to be home and to be sitting down, but he was still worried about Sherlock. The murderer had not been playing around when his fist had connected with Sherlock’s face. “Come here, let me check on you,” John asked, far less forceful than he had been out on the streets. 

Sherlock smiled and immediately winced, and instead of bowing down to offer John his face, he climbed on the chair and into John’s lap, wrapping his arms around him as best as he could in the crowded space. 

“Nothing is broken, I promise. I … have done this before.”

“Doesn’t make it any better,” John mumbled against his chin. 

“I used to box, you know?”

John huffed. “How? You never broke anything. Your bones are …”

“Entirely intact, yes,” Sherlock finished his sentence almost impatiently. “Here,” he then said, taking John's index finger and pressing it against the scar on his lower lip. “It seemed like I would never stop bleeding.”

“What happened?”

“I was distracted.”

“In the ring?”

“On the streets. What I did was more like bare knuckle boxing,” Sherlock smirked and ran his knuckles alongside John’s jaw, rasping against his stubble.

“You never landed a blow, did you?” John caught his hand and looked at it closely. He had never paid particular attention to the back of Sherlock’s hands, but now, in the dim light of their living room, he could see a few spidery scars across his knuckles. “Jesus, Sherlock. Why did you hurt yourself?”

“You don’t feel it, you know? Not immediately, anyway.”

John sighed and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s hand. “Okay, I … know what you mean. I don’t understand it, but I know…”

“You do understand,” Sherlock argued, making himself more comfortable in John’s lap, making him hiss when he elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what the rush feels like. And you wouldn’t stop to let it distract you either.”

“But you said you were distracted.”

“Once.”

“Pretty boy, was he?”

“Who? What?” Sherlock seemed seriously confused and John kissed him just for that. 

“Never mind.”

“I was thinking, that was my mistake.”

“About what?”

“I don’t remember. Must have deleted it.”

John chuckled and gently shoved at Sherlock. “Up you get. I need a shower. And food. God, when did we last eat?”

Sherlock opened his mouth but John’s look silenced him. 

“Rhetorical question?”

John nodded and pushed again. “I also can’t feel my legs anymore. When did you get so heavy?”

Sherlock climbed off him and straightened his clothes. “You used to complain about my weight, and now I am too heavy?”

“For a lapdog, certainly,” John chuckled and rubbed his thighs. “But you should keep it cool, you know? Just for a bit longer?”

Sherlock sighed and made his way to the refrigerator, plucking a pack of frozen peas from the freezer and pushing them against his face.

John watched him, shaking his head. “No direct contact of the ice with your skin, Sherlock. How many times do I have to …”

Walking back towards him, Sherlock picked up a tea towel and wrapped it around the bag of peas, coming to stand in front of John. “That was quite … arousing.”

“What, the peas? Me, yelling at you?”

Sherlock grinned, winced, and kissed him carefully. “You getting ready to kill someone for me.”

John took a step back. “That should not be arousing.”

“Sorry, can’t help it.”

“Seriously, Sherlock. You can’t just go and tell me something like that.”

“Why not. It’s just an observation.”

“How am I supposed to react when someone threatens or hurts you? Wink at you, make sure you’re enjoying yourself?”

Sherlock took another step forward, placing his free hand against the back of John's head to pull him into another kiss; one that John did not immediately return. With a sigh, he pulled back. “You’re not supposed to do anything apart from doing exactly what you have to do.”

“And that would be?”

“Be my knight in shining armour,” Sherlock smiled and walked away, leaving John both irritated and with butterflies in his stomach.


	6. December 6

Sherlock’s bruise looked very colourful and while John felt a little bad about it, he still had to chuckle every time Sherlock looked up from his computer. 

“John.” 

That was all he said. Every time.

John was slowly overcome by the feeling that Sherlock did it on purpose, looking up whenever John looked at him, and instead of a rom-com exchange of shy looks and blushes, it turned into a competition of who could keep the game up for longer. 

Finally Sherlock closed his laptop and folded his hands on it, looking at John expectantly. “We should get a tree today.”

“Should we?”

“Why, yes. The decorations are already down here, so all we need is a tree to start on your Christmas.”

“You could say our Christmas, you know?”

“But it’s yours. You wanted it. You’re getting it.”

“I want a normal Christmas, nothing fancy, nothing special. I don’t want my Christmas, I just want _a_ Christmas.”

“John, every family has its own traditions, there is no single, normal Christmas.”

“I still want it to be ours.”

“But you know how my family celebrates Christmas…”

“Exactly, that’s why I want ours, not theirs.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, we can have our own traditions.”

“Christmas pudding…” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows and John laughed out loud. 

“Yes, and, you know, whatever seems christmassy – I don’t want you to just consider what a regular English family would do … I want you to have a couple of days in which you can relax, let go, set work aside for a while, as much as you’re able to.”

“That’s much more difficult than getting a tree,” Sherlock noted, sinking down in his chair a bit.

“Please don’t call Lestrade with an emergency again.”

“He told you about that?”

“He told me a whole lot of things after Mary and I separated.”

Sherlock blushed lightly. “Well, I’ll have to trust you to keep me occupied, then.”

“Oh, I will, though probably not in ways you are imagining right now,” John grinned and lifted a foot to press it against Sherlock’s thigh under the table. 

Sherlock huffed and slid forward in his seat, wanting to bring John’s foot closer to his crotch. However, he misjudged the size of his chair and simply slid off it with a yelp, making John laugh hard enough to give him hiccups. 

He finally checked under the table, where Sherlock sat sulking. “You okay?”

Sherlock sniffed. “I am deeply hurt.”

John bit his lip. “I’ll make it up to you. And I didn’t say that I wouldn’t make love to you at all over Christmas. But I do have other ideas. Now come up here again.”

“So, we’re getting a tree?” 

“Not while you’re under this table.”

“Don’t be obvious, John.”

“Just saying.”

John bit his lip hard to keep from laughing as Sherlock crawled out from under the table and stood up, looking somewhat ruffled. There is no dignified way of doing that and Sherlock did not attempt dignity.

“I love you, you know?”

Sherlock pulled a face but still leaned down to kiss him. “I know.”

Half an hour later they were standing in a pen surrounded by Christmas trees of all sizes, half of them on display, the others wrapped in white nets. “Sherlock? This one looks okay?”

“No, look, it’s already losing needles. We can’t have that, not when I want to …”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly, knowing that maybe it was presumptuous to think that Sherlock would speak of making love to him under the tree in public but not brave enough to risk it. 

“Fine,” Sherlock pushed his hands into his coat pockets. 

“Please don’t consider this. Because all trees lose needles,” John said when he stood closer to Sherlock. “The couch will do just fine.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine, how about this one, then?”

“Nah, there’s gunk all over this, look.”

“That’s tree gum, John”, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We … I could use it for experiments.”

“No, not happening. You can take some from this tree, but we are not having the stuff drip down on the floor in our living room. Mrs Hudson would have a fit.”

Sherlock shrugged, but he did pick up a stick and transferred some of the sticky syrup onto it before dropping it into a plastic bag he had produced from his coat pocket. 

“How about this one?”

“It’s wonky.”

“This one?” 

“Too short.”

“This one?” John had started randomly pointing at trees, realising that none of the trees would fit Sherlock’s idea of the ideal Christmas tree. 

“Too brown, and look, here, it suffers from some sort of fungus.”

“Well, it’s not suffering anymore,” John noted drily and Sherlock actually laughed. 

“I see. Which one would you like?”

“This one,” John pointed at one that looked just normal. Not that any of the others had looked any different to him, but if Sherlock had realised that he was wasting their time and was willing to concede to John’s wish, he would not overstretch his luck by stopping and looking at all the trees before making a decision.

They managed to carry the tree home, but left it sitting in the staircase above their flat, unwilling to go any further that day. Decorations would have to wait, and for a very good reason, too. John had to do good on his promise and make up for laughing at Sherlock under the table.


	7. December 7

John settled down in his chair with a mug of mulled wine. Sherlock had “gone shopping” and while a small part of John was excited at the prospect that maybe, possibly, hopefully, he might do Christmas shopping, he guessed it would be more along the lines of pigs’ intestines. 

They had put up the tree earlier, but John had to leave for work before managing to go any further on it, and now he waited for Sherlock to come back, wanting to share the experience with him. 

As he sat here, enjoying the quiet of the evening, letting his mind wander, he suddenly realised that if he wanted a real Christmas, he’d need to get several presents for Sherlock. One for the 24th, because he liked the thought of unwrapping a present while the Royal Family opened theirs. He knew it was silly, but the thought had always excited him. Then one for before breakfast, just something small, to make sure that even in pyjamas, with bad hair and morning breath, it was indeed Christmas. And then a long and extensive breakfast still in pyjamas, and then, finally, the official opening of the gifts. 

So, a minimum of three to satisfy his urge for the Christmas he dreamed of. He realised that it was his own childhood’s Christmas, and he wondered if there was anything that he would want now. Something to bring back the excitement he used to feel. 

He sipped on his wine and allowed himself to remember the days when his parents were still alive and Harry had not yet taken to drinking. 

Just then, Sherlock returned, looking a bit windswept, with reddened cheeks and nose, shaking out his hair as he entered the flat, kicking the door shut and giving a full body shudder before he carefully placed two heavy looking bags in a corner. 

For a moment, John just watched him, being eternally grateful to be spending his life with that gorgeous, irritating, brilliant human being.

“Successful?” John smiled, fighting the urge to open up his arms and shout “All I want for Christmas is you,” though it was a close call.

“Relatively,” Sherlock answered. “You look … happy?” He cocked his head to one side, watching him more closely. 

“You’re home, that’s all.”

Sherlock stood very still for a moment, looking at John with wonder. “You don’t know what I am about to do to the kitchen,” he finally said, but it fell flat, even though John had to chuckle. 

“Doesn’t matter, really.”

“John, how much… no, just this mug. What is going on?”

“Nothing, really. I’m just happy to see you. I missed my family a bit just now, you know, childhood memories, but then you walked in …” 

Sherlock sucked in a breath and held it before letting go of it with a shuddering sigh. Then he stretched out his arm. 

John put down the mug and got up, felling slightly tipsy; probably from the wine, and maybe, just maybe, from the impact of Sherlock’s reaction. He walked up to him and Sherlock closed the gap, drawing John into his arms and hugging him tightly. John could feel the cold seeping out from the fabric of his coat, so he unbuttoned it and pulled it open and around himself, hiding against Sherlock’s chest for a moment. 

“I love you, you know?” Sherlock murmured quietly against John’s temple and John smiled so hard he thought his cheeks might cramp. He pressed his hands against Sherlock’s chest and pushed himself away enough to be able to look up at him. “I know,” he answered with a smile before slowly rising to his toes. For a long, breathless moment, they were both holding back, knowing that the kiss would change the perfect contentment they currently felt into desire, but the kiss was inevitable now. 

Their noses touched, just for a brief moment, and they both had to grin. Finally, Sherlock lowered his chin and pressed his lips against John’s. When he gave them an experimental lick, he smiled and hummed his approval. “You spiked it with rum,” he noted, kissing again, more deeply now.

John chuckled against his lips and pressed up to be able to kiss him properly. “Needed to warm up.”

Sherlock kissed his way from his lips towards his ear, nibbling a little before biting gently and moving down his throat. John moaned, unused to such gentle treatment from Sherlock.

An hour later, Sherlock poured himself a mug of mulled wine, stark naked and thoroughly fucked, after he had locked all the doors, being watched by John who was now sporting a rather large love-bite just below his collar bone.


	8. December 8

Sherlock had been called away on a case, which should have made John happy, considering his boredom just a week ago, minus the short relief thereof by the case that left him bruised, but now he felt bereft of his strangely happy lover who had gone as far as to place a Christmas bauble on his pillow next to the note which announced his impeding absence. 

To his surprise, he found exactly half of the tree decorated when he dragged himself into the living room. Sherlock had not yet attached any lights, but he had found baubles in the shape of chemistry equipment and human bones, leaving John with regular – boring, really – baubles to hang up.

John made coffee and then wrapped himself in Sherlock’s discarded dressing gown and finished decorating the tree. In the end he carefully wrapped three different fairy light chains around the tree. He wanted Sherlock to be there when he turned them on, so he stood back and snapped a photo which he sent to Sherlock with a text. _Love what you did with the tree xx_

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock texted back. _Bought them at the Wellcome Trust. They had intestines, too, but I thought that would be stretching it._

John laughed and dialled his number. Sherlock picked up after a moment. 

“You busy?”

“Knee deep in half frozen mud, but otherwise I’m fairly…oh, what is…”

The connection broke and John sighed. He hoped that Sherlock had not dropped the phone into the mud in his excitement, so he texted him to call him as soon as he was done and that he’d see whether he was needed at work. 

The season brought all kinds of bugs with it and John spent a good eight hour shift helping his colleagues by checking on patients with the flu, with runny noses, with frost bitten cheeks and, later in the day, half drunk men who had had a few mugs of mulled wine too many and had injured themselves falling. He wondered why they came to their clinic, but figured that the A&E was probably overcrowded. 

He disinfected his hands before he rubbed his face after the last patient closed the door on his way out. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Sherlock was sitting on the patients’ chair, looking at him with a gentle expression which turned into amusement at John’s groan.

“Did I just falls asleep again?”

“Again?” Sherlock’s left eyebrow arched up. 

John leaned forward and threw his antibacterial gel at Sherlock. “Use it, please.” He gestured at the room. "Things live here."

Sherlock shrugged and then poured the gel onto his palm, watching it melt against the warmth of his hand. 

“Sometimes I stayed up for too long, you know, when I helped you with cases? I fell asleep once, when I worked for Sarah.”

Sherlock crinkled his nose as he rubbed his hands together and threw the bottle back. 

“Oh, come on. You liked Sarah.”

“She was above average intelligent, yes. Good for you. Thankfully not very … attached.”

“She was gorgeous,” John sighed. “I wonder what …”

“Please don’t waste your time trying to call her up.”

“Why not?” John tried his hardest not to grin. 

“Please don’t?” Sherlock asked, instead of making up a random argument to keep himself from addressing the fact that John wasn’t the only jealous one in their relationship. 

“Fine, I won’t. Just because you said please,” John smiled and stood up. “Let’s go and have something to eat?”

Sherlock nodded and got up, holding the door open for John, who thanked him with a kiss. 

They passed a couple of restaurants before Sherlock finally conceded that yes, Italian was fine, even if it wasn’t Angelo’s. 

John was more than happy to get something to chew on while Sherlock poked at his pasta and related the newest information about the case to him. 

“What happened after I phoned you?”

“I fell,” Sherlock admitted, clearly having hoped that it wouldn’t come up.

“In the freezing mud?”

“Well, I did find a vital clue.”

“Judging from the clothes you are wearing now you also had the vital idea of going home to change?”

“Obviously.”

“What was the clue?”

“Three fingers. Of three different individuals.”

John looked down on his food and pushed it away with a sigh. “I hope you did not pocket them to integrate them into your Christmas tree arrangement?”

Sherlock grinned. “Don’t be distasteful, John,” he chided him quietly and John burst out laughing.

They walked home. Not quite holding hands, but walking close enough to bump shoulders and hands every few seconds. “I’m enjoying this,” John admitted when they were only five minutes away from home.

“What?”

“You know!”

“You told me a long time ago that you did not want me to … make assumptions about your thoughts.”

John snorted. “Worked out well, did it?”

“Well, I stopped sharing my observations with you, at least as long as we are in public,” he softened his response with a wink. 

“Still.”

“You want me to pick you up from work more often. You liked the food, although you did not appreciate my comment about the fingers. You would like to hold my hand while we walk.”

“Hmm, yes.”

“Why don’t you, then?” Sherlock asked. It was a genuine question, John could tell by how timidly he posed it.

“Thought it might bother you?”

“Might, yes, possibly. Though, I have no … previous experience.”

John grinned and pulled the glove off Sherlock’s left hand. “I remember you saying that to me before, and didn’t that work out just fine?”


	9. December 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about any typos or weird formatting. I had to write and post this on my tablet, as I am not at home right now and until Sunday!

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I have been wondering … “

“About?”

“Well, what you might want for Christmas.”

“First of all, you don't wonder. Second of all … I have no idea, actually.”

“Well, I have thirteen ideas, but they all have the potential to upset you if seen in the wrong context.”

“I am impressed that you can manage to think of that many things that could upset me.”

“Just gifts. The number of things that could potentially upset you is much, much higher than that.”

“You have a list?”

“Well, in order to avoid them, I need to have an inventory.”

“And yet,” John chuckled and Sherlock stared at him from where he lay on the couch, in his dressing gown and a new pair of pyjama bottoms that looked like he had worn them for years. It was only the knowledge that Sherlock had just bought them the other day that made John certain that they were, in fact, new. It was rather the fact that they were a little too wide, occasionally riding low on his hips, and a little too long, which was quite the feat considering Sherlock’s endless legs, so that they crumpled at his feet that gave them the long used look.

“Sherlock?” 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed, daring him to say something about how listing upsetting things did not keep him from hurting John. Instead, John smiled and pointed at his pyjama bottoms. 

“Why did you buy them a couple of sizes too large?”

Sherlock needed a moment to understand that John was in fact not referring to something upsetting, though his frown indicated that he considered in which way John might still be upset by it. John vowed to be less annoyed by things in the future.

“Because since you moved back in, I have been steadily gaining weight. I thought it sensible to invest in a piece of clothing that might still fit me in a couple of years.”

“That is one of the most romantic things you have ever said,” John smiled and got up, walking over to the couch and sitting down on the coffee table. “But, there is more.”

“You like it when you can see my hip bones,” Sherlock said sheepishly and John leaned forward and kissed him with a smile. “You are a very considerate boyfriend, even if you don’t come across as that occasionally.”

“Please don't use the term boyfriend, John,” Sherlock asked, but he still leaned forward to receive a second kiss. “And not everyone needs to know how much I adore you,” he added, quietly, as if to make sure that only John would hear, even though the room was empty otherwise. Not even Mycroft would be listening in on them, Sherlock had made very sure of that. 

For a moment, John was simply stunned. Sherlock’s very occasional declarations of love were a rare thing, but for him to speak of himself as adoring was definitely new. And John could see by the blush that rose from Sherlock’s neck upwards, that he was a little out of his depth concerning his words. 

“I adore you, too,” John said instead of addressing the elephant in the room. “Very much. And yes, your hip bones are quite lovely.”

“Even if they will slowly disappear when I gain more weight.”

“The pants will stay up then, so I wouldn't get to see them anyway.”

Sherlock grinned lopsidedly and turned on his back “Let me know if you think of anything that you might want for Christmas. Apart from my hip bones, that is.” 

That evening, when Sherlock joined John in bed, John was half asleep already, but still rolled over to be able to reach out and push Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms out of the way so he could rub his thumb against Sherlock's hip bone. What he did not notice, because he fell asleep soon after, was that Sherlock lay awake for hours, rock hard, not daring to move for fear of waking John up and causing him to pull his hand away.


	10. December 10

Sherlock was fast asleep by the time John woke up. He had rolled away from John and would not wake up, no matter what John tried. So he left him a note, saying that he was on call today, but that he would do a bit of Christmas shopping before things got too crazy downtown, and that he wanted to spend the evening with him, whether Sherlock had a case or not. It was more a test than anything else, but John wanted to finally have his moment of turning on the lights on the tree. And possibly go to bed early and make love to Sherlock without thinking of getting up early.

He made himself coffee - Mrs Hudson had stopped bringing coffee upstairs after walking in on them having sex three times in a single week, much to Sherlock's chagrin, who felt that, if she was bothered by their lovemaking, could just drop off the coffee without looking and disappear again. John had pointedly ignored his advances over the course of the following week, refusing even kisses, so that finally Sherlock had asked what he had said or done and John had sat him down and told him to go and apologise to Mrs Hudson, something John had done after every time it had happened, but the third time had admittedly been the most shocking, with them going at it right on the carpet behind the door. Mrs Hudson had almost tripped over them, given a shout and dropped the coffee pot. 

John had replaced it, of course, but this time Mrs Hudson told him that if they wanted their coffee made in the morning, they would have to come downstairs and get it.

He had not told Sherlock that - and instead told Mrs Hudson to not offer her services so freely, not when Sherlock was entirely unappreciative. Since then, it had been up to them to make their coffee, and while John knew that Mrs Hudson was not quite as shocked as she pretended each time she walked in on them, that Sherlock usually only learned to appreciate something he had taken for granted when he didn't have it anymore - including John.

It had taken John's marriage for Sherlock to realise that John had been the only reason he had returned to London after his 'death'. He had admitted that after a night in a dark room, their eyes trained on the entrance of the house across the street, waiting for a wanted bank robber to arrive in order to arrange his newest project. 

He had not come that night and by 4 o'clock in the morning, John had been ready to fall asleep sitting down and Sherlock had started to talk in order to keep him awake. First, it had been a recount of all the information he had about the case, trying to figure out why his deduction that the man was supposed to show up might have been flawed.  


John had told him that his deduction was probably right but that something might have come in the way - an accident, maybe, or human unreliability.  


Sherlock had been silent for a moment before he looked away from the door across the street for the first time that night, and had kissed John soundly on the lips.  


For some reason, John had not been surprised. He had known that Sherlock had been off emotionally since his wedding to Mary, and then he had done everything in his power to make John happy despite it all, causing quite a lot of problems because of it. And then Mary had shot him and everything had changed. John realised that Sherlock was the only person he truly trusted with his life, and while he tried to fix his relationship with Mary, things had not been the same after.  


And after that kiss in that dark room while John still wore his wedding ring, Sherlock had told him exactly where he had been when he had disappeared and what he had done. He stripped off his jacket and shirt and asked John to touch his scarred back. He had cried when John had gasped and pressed a kiss to his left shoulder.  


John had filed for divorce the next day.


	11. December 11

John's plan of making love to Sherlock had been thwarted by Sherlock's absence when John returned. There was a note on the kitchen table, explaining that Sherlock had woken up after noon and that he was needed at the Yard. John knew better than to call him or Lestrade to ask what the reason for Sherlock's absence was, even though he had explicitly asked him to be home. 

So John had had a frustrated wank, gone to bed, read half a page and fallen asleep, only to wake up to Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, already fully dressed, watching him sleep.

"Morning," John murmured and rubbed his face. 

"I'm sorry I was not at home yesterday. It really couldn't be helped."

"Today?" John asked, hopeful that Sherlock hadn't taken on a case that would occupy him so much that he would disppear for a while. 

"Today I am all yours."

"Why are you dressed, then?" John tugged weakly at his shirt. 

"No reason."

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him down onto the bed. 'Oh, I know why," he grinned. 

"You do?" Sherlock asked, wide eyed.

"You know that I would have been entirely fine being woken up by you trying to have sex with me."

"I woke up quite early," Sherlock argued. 

"Still you could have worn your pajamas."

"Umm, they're being washed. It's also not the same."

"So you got dressed so I could undress you."

Sherlock smiled widely and spread his arms. 

They made love, then they showered and ended up in bed again. "I wonder what you would look like in a Santa's hat," John chuckled against Sherlock's chest, looking up to see Sherlock's amused expression just before he reigned it in. 

"I will not wear a Santa's hat."

"Not even in bed?"

"Especially not in bed,"

"Hmm," John pouted "How disappointing."

"Oh, come off it," Sherlock complained with uncharacteristic candour. 

"I'm sure it'd go really nicely with your hair and your eyes."

"Piss off," Sherlock finally chuckled. 

They stayed in bed for a bit longer, attached from head to toe, occasionally kissing, but quiet and contented. John knew he was being very very lucky at the moment. To have Sherlock this complacant and calm, not lost in his own thoughts or eager for a new case was just as rare as his good mood had been lately. 

They rose when it grew dark outside, both of them hungry and slighty sore from the sex. They ordered lunch and once they had surrounded themselves with boxes of Chinese food, John proposed to turn on the Christmas lights. Sherlock concured and watched as John, who was more excited by the simple action of pressing a button than was reasonable for an adult, switched off the living room lights and then hummed a tune while John did the deed. The tree looked fairly strange with one half covered in Sherlock's themed baubles and the other in John's regular ones, but the lights permeated all parts of the tree and John couldn't quite stop smiling.

"It's perfect, isn't it? Very us."

Sherlock smiled and picked up his violin, amusing John with a few fast paced Christmas tunes.  


They did not leave the flat at all that day and after going to bed, they made love again and Sherlock told John that yes, the tree was indeed perfect the way it was.


	12. December 12

Monday afternoon. John yawned heartily. He had just returned from another virus filled day at the clinic and he wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot shower, preferably in disinfectant. He pulled off his coat and flung it in the direction of the peg, missing it, and grunting as he had to walk over to pick it up and hang it properly. He would not attempt something like this again today. No throwing teabags at mugs, hoping to be lucky, no balled up paper flung at the bin. He missed the seventeenth step and almost fell, managing to graze his knuckles on the banister instead and was thoroughly done with the day once he walked into the kitchen. 

Chaos reigned. Sherlock sat by the table, wearing goggles and a dressing gown that John knew only saw the light of day when Sherlock experimented with something that could potentially harm his clothes. Just then, he dropped something and a small explosion caused multicoloured powder to cloud over the table. Sherlock cursed, quietly, before he turned around to face John. 

“Why are you home already?” he asked, his voice a little tinny because of the goggles that partly covered his nose. 

“I’m done with work. And I’m done with this day, too. And so it seems are you,” John sighed and walked over to the sink.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock argued and began rearranging his equipment. “I just need more time alone.”

“Am I allowed to make tea?”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, already concentrating on his experiment again. 

John placed the mug down harder than necessary, spilling some, burning his hand in the process and earning a disapproving look through goggles from Sherlock. Usually, he would have been amused, but today he just wanted to take the tea away and pour it down the drain. 

He stopped himself, knowing that it would make things only worse, and, after cooling his burn for a moment, picked up his own cup and disappeared in the living room. 

He switched on the telly but had to switch it off again after learning on the news that the world was about to end, that men loving men was a sin and that the borders to the UK should be manned by soldiers – yes, all along the entire coastline. 

He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. He was home. Things were okay. There was a tree which spelled out his and Sherlock’s perception of themselves so clearly that he had to smile, despite it all. He sipped on his tea and then set it down and got up. He looked closely at the tree and then exchanged a human hip bauble for a regular silver one. 

Stepping back, he considered the obvious change to the tree. It felt a tiny bit satisfying to claim Sherlock’s hips for his own side of the tree. He forced himself to shake off the feeling that today, anything that could go wrong would go wrong, considering that the tea was just what he had needed, that his lover was currently doing something insane in the kitchen and that their living room had suddenly become a lot more festive.

Until now, he had not realised that Sherlock had added Christmas decorations to the room. There was a group of wooden elves packing up tiny presents next to the skull on the mantel piece and several additional Christmas baubles and tree ornaments had been placed in the book shelves, and were hanging off furniture. On the coffee table, John found a tiny handmade version of a nativity scene, including a ridiculously large donkey. He had made that years and years ago, forgotten about it entirely. Where in the world had Sherlock found this?

He was back in the kitchen in a flash, breathing hard, suddenly, his heart beating heavily in his chest. “Sherlock!” was all he managed for a while. 

Sherlock pulled his goggles off and wiped his cheek, managing only to smear his face with whatever substance he had been using instead of wiping it off.

“Yes, John?”

“Where did you get this?” he pointed at the living room behind him and Sherlock leaned back in his chair. 

“Your sister.”

“She gave that to you?”

“Umm,” Sherlock sniffed and then rubbed his nose, adding more gooey substance to his face. John prayed that it wasn’t toxic. “I might have …coerced her into handing them over.” 

“Will she blame me for it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock shrugged. 

John grimaced, wondering what Sherlock had done to Harry to get a box of Christmas decorations that he had not seen in several decades.  
“Thank you!”

Sherlock smiled, obviously relieved that John was not upset by his roundabout way of trying to create a perfect Christmas for him.

“It’s one of the items on the list, isn’t it?” John asked, laughter rushing out of him, taking the tension of the day with it. 

Sherlock nodded, tight lipped. A second later he sneezed, sending a puff of red powder drifting across the table. 

“Is any of that dangerous?”

“Only if consumed in too large quantities.”

For the first time, John really paid attention to what Sherlock was doing and a second later he kissed him furiously, wiping at the sugar paste on his face, feeling like a right cock for being in such a bad mood earlier.


	13. December 13

_Bored._

_Sherlock!_

_I am. Lestrade is taking too long._

_So you need to write that in a text? Because really, this is why texting was invented. For you to tell me how bored you are._

_Possibly._

A few seconds later …

_Probably._

_Anything I can do to relieve your boredom?_ John grinned at his phone, walking right into a man. “So sorry!” he apologised, ignoring the remarks that he should watch where he was going. 

_I have a list for that as well, but none of them are practical right now._

_Can’t you deduce the people around you?_

_I’ll not waste my time on boring individuals._

_You just told me you were bored, Sherlock. Either you do something about it or you stop texting me._

He sighed and tried to rub warmth into his hands without dropping the phone. 

_Not, you know, stop forever. Just about your boredom._ He wanted to make sure that Sherlock did not take him literally. 

_There are ten people in this room who need glasses but don’t wear any, nor contacts. TEN, John!_

John giggled and barely avoided walking into another person again. He decided to sit in a café for this conversation, imagining Sherlock sitting in the crowded waiting room of the Yard, surrounded by people who wanted to give statements, who had turned themselves in for processing or people like Sherlock, waiting for information from one of the officers. Sherlock was probably still in his coat, sitting up straight, pretending to not be there and certainly not to belong to the crowd surrounding him, making himself unconsciously conspicuous. 

_That probably includes me_ , he finally texted back.

_You are not in this room, John._

And half a minute later...

_Why are you not in this room?_

_Because I am enjoying my free afternoon. Doing nothing. Well, texting you, it seems._

_Since when do you have free afternoons._

_Since you have to go over paperwork with Lestrade. I have no knowledge of your case, so I would only distract you if I were there._

_You are distracting me by not being here._

_I thought you were bored?_

_Am I allowed to answer that questions?_

John chuckled and ordered a large coffee. 

_No. I’m just saying. If I am distracting you by not being there, then you cannot possibly be bored._

_Multitasking._

This time, John laughed properly. People started turning around to look at him. 

_Remember that time you very convincingly explained to me that multitasking is a myth?_

No answer. 

_So, while you wait and are distracted by my absence, could you think of a Christmas wish?_

_Be more specific._

John wondered how Sherlock could possibly find his request unspecific, but he tried again. 

_What do you want for Christmas?_

John’s coffee came and he had drunk half of it before he received an answer.

_I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that._

John smiled. Sherlock had spent so much time trying to make sure that John would have a good Christmas that he had apparently never really thought about the fact that he would also be part of all of this. 

_Let me know when you do. And please don’t say socks…_

The coffee was gone when John’s phone chimed again. 

_I’ll let you know._


	14. December 14

“Have you thought of something?” John had forced himself not to ask earlier but he knew that if Sherlock wished for something extravagant, time might be running short. 

“Not yet. It’s not something I usually do.”

“Think about what you want?”

“Well,” Sherlock looked up and held John’s gaze for a while. “The exception proves the rule.”

John felt himself blush. “Is there nothing you wanted but never thought of getting for yourself?”

Again, Sherlock looked up, his expression pensive. “We don’t have a photo of the two of us.”

“Is that what you want? A portrait or something?”

“Why not. At least it’s something.”

John smiled. “Should we ask Mrs Hudson to take a photo and then we could take it to the printer?”

Sherlock shook his head and got up, stopping in front of John and holding out one hand. John took it, feeling slightly nervous. 

He was pulled into a standing position and a moment later Sherlock kissed him deeply and thoroughly and long enough for John to begin to fear that standing up might become an issue. 

He grabbed two hands full of arse and Sherlock moaned against his lips, biting lightly, before pulling back and running his finger across John’s lips. Then he pulled out his phone and moved to stand behind John, pulling him back against his chest and taking a couple of photos with his phone. 

John was hyper aware of the burn of his lips, his messy hair, his hard on and Sherlock's against his arse, and the fact that his heart beat heavily against his ribs. Sherlock’s hand was still pressed against his chest, claiming him as his. 

“Now we have one,” he murmured against the shell of John’s ear and he shuddered. It had taken him exactly two minutes to become so turned on that he could barely stand Sherlock’s position of control behind him. So he pushed his arse back, positively grinding it against Sherlock’s crotch and Sherlock gasped, cleared his throat and coughed before the first real moan escaped him that he couldn’t hold back. 

“You were supposed to wish for something that I could give you, not something you could simply take from me,” he said quietly, forcing his voice to sound controlled, authoritative and slightly dangerous. He knew that Sherlock was helpless when he used that voice on him. As he had predicted, Sherlock moaned loudly this time, pressing himself harder against John. 

“What do you want?” John asked, letting Sherlock do all the work now, standing still in the middle of the room. 

Sherlock’s breathing came out in quick raspy gasps and John wondered whether he had been aroused before their conversation. His looks earlier might have been an indication, but John had no idea what might have triggered it. 

“I want you in a three piece suit. Like you wore at your wedding. And I want to take it off you.” Each phrase was interrupted with a gasp. “Slowly,” Sherlock added, grinding harder still, his hand on John’s chest starting to massage while the other slowly moved down John’s body.

“Hmm,” John agreed. He had looked quite dashing in that suit. And so had Sherlock. His ears burned. “What else?”

“I want to,” he groaned and removed both of his hands in order to be able to grab John’s arse. “I want to make love to you. Now.”

“Another thing that you will take instead of me giving it to you,” John remarked, barely holding himself together. It was almost always him who made love to Sherlock, not the other way around, but as things stood, he couldn’t think of anything he would rather do in that moment. 

“Not a Christmas wish then,” Sherlock breathed against John’s neck, his hands almost sending John to his knees. He wondered why Sherlock did not simply drag him to the bedroom, but then he understood that Sherlock was waiting for his permission. 

“Fine. Granted.”

He found it hard walking, and harder to undress. Sherlock watched him with a heaving chest, every breath audible. John couldn’t remember ever having seen him so excited by the prospect of making love, at least not since their first time. 

He got on the bed and began preparing himself, knowing that it might not be what Sherlock had planned, but he needed to be ready, because any delay might either kill him or Sherlock. 

“Come here,” he finally ordered, trying once more to keep his voice steady. He turned on his stomach and raised his arse up to greet Sherlock, who made an undignified noise, blushed and then undressed as quickly as possible. 

Despite the preparation, John was tense and Sherlock bit his back in frustration when he needed longer than usual to finally push into John. Overwhelmed and breathless, more from the experience in the living room than the reality of sex, they barely managed to coordinate their movements. Sherlock fell out of rhythm again and again, leaving John frustrated and gasping for breath. 

“Calm down,” he finally ordered, causing Sherlock to stop moving entirely. “Breathe. Slowly. Slower. Sherlock. Just breathe. You’re killing me here.”

“John.”

“Slowly. Good. Keep doing that!”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

John smiled hard at the pillow. Sherlock being reduced to only saying his name was another thing that only happened once in a blue moon and of all the things Sherlock was doing at the moment, it was the one that had the most profound impact on John. 

He could feel Sherlock’s movement quicken again, and feel him press into him with more force. He closed his eyes and let his body take over. When he came, Sherlock followed and pressed him down against the mattress, giving him no room to move, making it all the more intense for John. 

For a long time they just lay there, Sherlock sprawled out on top of John, both of them boneless and giddy, still high from the sudden rush. 

“Sherlock,” John finally managed and elbowed him in the ribs to make him move off him. When he did, he immediately kissed him and then pulled him into his arms. “I’m starting to change my mind on wishes of this kind,” he admitted and chuckled when Sherlock snorted. “As long as it won’t be under the tree.”

“And as long as I don’t have to wear a Santa’s hat.”


	15. December 15

John sat down at the desk, having left Sherlock in the kitchen to experiment some more on a Christmas cookie recipe which he had apparently inherited from his great grandmother and never once in his life looked at properly. He grunted, being reminded quite prominently of yesterday’s activities. 

Opening his browser while trying to find a more comfortable sitting position, he began wondering what to search for. Presents for geniuses? Presents for people who don’t want anything? Sex toys? 

John grinned to himself. No, that would be obvious and Sherlock would not approve. With a chuckle, he ordered a Santa’s hat. If Sherlock refused to wear one in bed, then maybe he should be the one wearing it. He knew that he would look ridiculous, but, well, it was Christmas after all. 

Then he searched for microscopes, chemistry sets, and even considered a kid’s detective set which included talcum powder and a police tape that said ‘do not cross’ in comic sans. He realised that he knew too little about the equipment Sherlock used for his experiments and vowed to pay better attention and ask more questions in the future. The year would pass quickly and why not already plan next year’s Christmas present ahead of time. 

But that did not solve his initial problem. 

He thought about Sherlock. The clothes he wore, the things he used every day. He did not want to give him anything that was overly condescending, and knowing Sherlock, most things John might deem helpful or necessary might be considered to be condescending by Sherlock. 

That photo, though. He knew that there were pictures of the two of them around, it was just that neither of them had them. He knew Lestrade had taken plenty of photos at his wedding, and so had the murderous photographer. He knew that Mary had snapped a few of them, especially after they had finally buried the hatchet and started talking to each other again. For a moment he had to swallow against the tightness in his throat. Despite everything that had happened, Mary had been the one insisting that they talk to each other again. She had seen the love between them. She had known she was intruding on something that she wasn’t a part of. 

He started writing an email, apologising several times for writing her out of the blue. And then he found himself typing up a very long email in which he detailed his problems with finding the perfect gift for Sherlock, knowing that she knew Sherlock in a way that he did not. She was intuitive where John was practical. Maybe she might be able to think of something. He hoped that she was still on his side.

Socks. His mind wandered back to his own initial limitation of what Sherlock could ask of him. Sherlock had a lot of expensive, black socks, of which 90% looked exactly the same and which made sorting them after drying hell, because they were not the same despite of how much it seemed to him that they were. John started to grin. Just the pre-Christmas breakfast gift, he would give Sherlock socks. Colourful, silly, happy socks. As he began researching socks, something he had never in his life imagined he would do, an email came. 

He opened it, distracted by a pair of socks with skulls on them, which were neither colourful, nor silly, nor happy, and yet 100% Sherlock, that it took him a while to understand what he was reading.

Mary’s email consisted of a single word: 

“You.”


	16. December 16

“Socks, really?” Sherlock looked up from the desk where he had been standing, chewing on toast, typing something with his free hand.

“Oy, get away from that computer.”

“Why?”

“Because you were not supposed to see that. Please stop looking at my search history.”

“Why, is there porn? Or worse, cat videos?”

John glared at him. “Just don’t.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed and crammed the rest of his toast into his mouth. “Are you working today?”

“Yes, but I have the weekend off.”

“Good.”

“Any plans?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smirked and then shook his head in mock disapproval when John narrowed his eyes at him. 

“And while I’m gone you leave my computer alone.”

Sherlock sighed and shrugged, walking away. “Tea?”

 

John sat at work, his mind going back to Sherlock casually typing on his computer. Had he logged into his emails? Had he read Mary’s email? And his initial one? Had he known why John had insisted on spooning him during the night? 

He had been awake for a long time, holding tightly on to Sherlock, remembering that Sherlock had come back for him. Just for him. He had remembered the feeling of the floor giving out under him, his stomach dropping, his ears ringing when he found Sherlock standing next to him. He recalled the physical pain he had been in then, the utter disbelief. There was no happiness then, no hope fulfilled, no joy in seeing Sherlock’s face again and seeing that he was whole and healthy and truly there. All he had felt was dread. Dread that a second later, Sherlock might disappear again. That he just imagined him. That he was going to leave, just passing through. 

Sherlock must have realised what John was going through, because he had turned around and held him for a while, his lips attached to John’s temple. Eventually John had calmed down again, but he knew that Sherlock had kept himself from asking John about it. He probably guessed that it had been a nightmare. Those had become rare, but they still came on occasionally when he least expected it.

New patients came and he was too busy to think, but on his way home he bought Indian takeaway and thought about the fact that he still dreaded Sherlock’s repeated disappearance every day. He found a large white envelope in their mail when he walked upstairs. Apart from his name and address, the envelope was blank. So a direct drop off, no mail service. He shook it and bent it and figured that there was neither anthrax nor a bomb in it. Upstairs, he found a note by Sherlock, telling him that Lestrade had finally found the file he had been looking for for days and that he’d be at the Yard, hoping to finally solve the case of a disappeared step-mother whom Sherlock suspected to have several step-sons in several cities in England, extorting money from each.

He made himself comfortable on the couch, put the food on the coffee table and carefully opened the envelope. He found about thirty glossy high quality photographs of himself with Sherlock – one from the wedding, the groom and the best man standing pressed together by the hip, each of them nervous for different reasons. One of them from Baker Street, Sherlock standing close to John, looking at the computer screen over his shoulder. One of them of the two of them grinning at each other across the table. One of them of John sleeping by Sherlock’s hospital bed, his hand curled around Sherlock’s wrist. 

He swallowed hard. Mary must have brought the envelope. They could only be her photos. Had she been at the hospital again without waking him up? Had she been there to warn Sherlock? To threaten him?

There were more from the wedding and some photos which suggested were taken with a less advanced camera, probably Lestrade’s phone. So she had hacked his phone and extracted the images? No, he shook his head, she had probably asked nicely. Lestrade would not deny her a request like that. One of those latter photos was one of them kissing. Sherlock’s hands were pressing him close by the small of his back and he was straining upwards to kiss Sherlock who had only tipped his head down but was standing fairly straight apart from that. He felt a small flash of arousal run down his spine. He had no idea that Lestrade had caught them kissing like that, never mind catching it on camera. 

He heard the door open and close downstairs and quickly pushed the photos back into the envelope which he slipped underneath the couch, far enough to be out of sight. He could hear Sherlock run up the stairs and had just sat up again when Sherlock came whirling into the room, went straight for the couch and pulled John up. They almost tumbled down on the couch when Sherlock kissed him with all the enthusiasm that usually filled him when he had solved a case. 

John laughed breathlessly when he finally let go of him. “You’re just in time for supper,” he grinned and kissed him again. “And I take it you were successful?”

Sherlock nodded and plopped down on the couch. “I was.”

“Good. Well done.” John settled down next to him and found that just then, his heart was full of a lot of things, but one emotion was notably missing – the dread that Sherlock might leave him again.


	17. December 17

“John, wake up!”

John yawned, stretched, and found upon opening his eyes that Sherlock was already infuriatingly awake, shaved, dressed and ready to go out. 

“I thought we were going to spend the weekend together.”

“We are. I just have to be somewhere first. Meet me at the Royal Albert Hall at 4 sharp. Main entrance.”

“But that’s hours away,” John complained, feeling somewhat cheated, although he had had no idea what Sherlock had planned. 

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and kissed his throat, wetly. John moaned in surprise. 

“I like knowing you’ll miss me,” Sherlock said with a smirk and pushed the sheets out of the way, pressing another kiss just below John’s belly button. Before John could even attempt to keep him in bed, Sherlock was up and out of the room and a moment later out of the flat. 

John considered going back to bed, but then he remembered the photos and he dragged himself into the living room, found a pot of steaming tea on the table for which he thanked Sherlock with a short text, and sat down on the couch, wrapped only in his bathrobe.

He leafed through the photos again and decided to get the kiss framed. Despite its lack in quality it was by far the best photo of all. He would take it to a framer before he’d meet Sherlock in Kensington.

Then his eyes fell on the wedding picture. Sherlock looked almost scared, pressing close to John as if he was the only thing, the only person Sherlock knew was safe. John remembered feeling the reassuring pressure of Sherlock’s arm against his, their hips touching. He had felt rooted in the moment, one of the last moments as a bachelor. Now that he saw his body language he could see that he was leaning against Sherlock as well, that his entire being was anchored to his best man. _The_ best man.

John swallowed and thought back to Mary’s email. Then he remembered Sherlock’s wish concerning those suits and he knew what he had to do. He dialled the number of the tailor who had made their suits and made an appointment for Monday. Then he leaned back, wondering whether he should get the same colours or a suit that more to Sherlock’s personal taste. And what kind of underwear to go with it.

He waited outside the concert hall with his hands in his pocket and his shoulders pulled up against the cold. Sherlock walked quickly, his coat open as if he did not feel the cold, but his hands were also in his pockets and he reminded John a tiny bit of a super hero who came to rescue him, cape and all. 

He grinned when Sherlock finally reached him. “Christmas Carol Singalong, really?”

“You asked for it.”

“I did, didn’t I?” John laughed and stepped forward, kissing Sherlock full on the lips in the middle of the crowded place.


	18. December 18

On Sunday, Sherlock presented John with what he called his great Christmas experiment. He had forbidden John to enter the kitchen, although he had made him several cups of tea and kept chatting through the half closed sliding doors that separated the kitchen from the living room. The smell of gingerbread had filled the flat.

John had been writing Christmas cards, realising that the number of cards he’d been sending had steadily risen since he had met Sherlock. Initially, he had barely had any friends in London, but since then, through the Yard and through cases, his address book had become more densely filled with names and numbers and he found, when he had finally put down his pen, that he had written 29 cards. 

“Sherlock, you need to sign these,” he had called, receiving an “I can’t just now. I’ll be there in a minute” in answer.

Sherlock had needed another half hour, but when he finally opened the doors and invited John in, John had been presented with a dozen artistically decorated gingerbread men, a fully decorated gingerbread house and several other kinds of cookies and sweets, apparently all handmade. 

“That…is amazing,” John had stared at the colourful kitchen table. “I can’t believe you are so good at that and never told me.”

“I don’t usually …”

“I know,” John smiled, not wanting Sherlock to apologise. “These look absolutely fantastic. Can I try one?”

Sherlock nodded, his cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. John kissed him quickly before he walked around the table once, inspecting Sherlock’s baking. 

“We should definitely give some to Mrs Hudson. I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” John suggested as he chewed on one star-shaped cookie. 

Sherlock shrugged, looking both proud and delighted that he had managed to surprise John. 

“There is nothing weird in this, is there? Poison?” John asked from across the table and Sherlock’s expression blanked. For a few seconds they just stared at each other before John cracked and burst out giggling. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, “I couldn’t help it.” 

Sherlock’s jaw worked, as if he was trying to keep himself from saying something rude. Then, finally, he relaxed. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Not really,” John walked around the table. “Not lately, at least. You’ve been incredible.”

“Have I?”

“Yes. Quite.” He carefully placed his hand behind Sherlock’s ear, his thumb gently stroking the soft skin right underneath it, before he pulled him down to kiss him. 

Sherlock smiled into the kiss and after he let John kiss him for a while, he finally wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, kissing him deeply. When they broke the kiss, they remained where they were, standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding on to each other tightly. “This is pretty damn perfect,” John finally murmured against Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing Sherlock even harder for a moment. 

“Should I sign those cards?”

“Hmm,” John kissed him again before he pulled away. “I’ll make us lunch.”

They ate on the couch, feet on the coffee table, watching some terrible Christmas themed casting show while John tried to guess the candidates’ backgrounds, talent and weaknesses with Sherlock correcting and gently mocking him for getting it wrong most of the time. 

When they had finished eating, they stayed on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, their hands loosely intertwined between them. John giggled at something Sherlock said about a candidate and turned to look at him only to find out that Sherlock had been watching him and not the show. His breath escaped him in a raspy gasp and he felt his ears grow hot. 

Sherlock’s lip twitched, just shy of a smile and John squeezed his hand. Suddenly he could feel his heart beating heavily against his ribs. He could feel how difficult breathing got and how long it had been since he had felt both shy and so ridiculously in love with Sherlock that he was helpless as to what to do about it. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his voice very low.

“Yes, why?” John asked, trying to sound normal and failing.

“Your pulse is up.”

John became conscious of the fact that Sherlock pinky finger had moved up to his wrist. John inhaled deeply. “I’m just really happy to be here with you right now.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long time as if he was surprised to have found John sitting there right next to him. Then he let go of John’s hand and wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Me, too,” he finally said with a small smile and returned his attention to the telly.


	19. December 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your lovely comments <3

“It’s Christmas, John!” Sherlock jumped up from his chair and did a little extra jump. “Not your Christmas, obviously, but they found two bodies in Hampstead Heath, each with a finger missing.”

John decided to ignore the notion that Sherlock was apparently more excited about the missing fingers than anything else and smiled at him. “Want me to come along?”

“Don’t you have work?”

“I was on call several days last week, I’m sure I can ask someone to cover for me today.”

“Great, good. Get your coat. And possibly your gun.”

“These men are dead,” John argued and Sherlock gave a little twirl and nodded excitedly. “But their fingers ended up in Thames mud a couple of days ago. The bodies are not that old.”

“So they lost their fingers before they died?”

“Yes, and they were killed, obviously.”

“Right,” John finished his tea and began getting dressed. Sherlock was buzzing with excitement. “I have an appointment at 3 pm, though. I have to be downtown then.”

“Sure.” Sherlock tucked his scarf tightly around his neck and was out of the door before John could say another word. 

If he was honest with himself, he missed moments like these, when Sherlock had a theory but not yet enough information to come up with a probable solution and he was excited by his not knowing. 

Sherlock had already hailed a cab and began telling John about the fingers, about how none of them matched any known individual in Britain and how they all had the same small incisions in their finger tips.

“What do you think happened?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Sherlock smiled, "but I believe the two bodies will tell us more.”

They reached the park and Sherlock was out of the cab before John could suggest that they might ask it to wait, so instead he paid the driver and jogged after him. 

Ten minutes later, John was entirely out of breath while Sherlock stood, or rather gleefully posed, over two half hidden bodies. They had been covered by twigs and fallen leaves and whoever had found them had uncovered them only partly. 

Lestrade was bouncing back and forth on his heels in order to stay warm while he frowned at Sherlock’s obvious happiness. 

“Where is the third body?” Sherlock asked, only causing the frown to deepen. 

“What third body?”

“Three fingers, three bodies.”

“You think the fingers we found downtown belong to these men?”

“One is a woman,” Sherlock clarified. “We’re looking for a female corpse, probably aged 40. Missing her left index finger.”

Lestrade called the Yard with that information and then came to stand next to John. “He’s positively glowing. What did you do to him?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything. It’s the case.”

“Don’t be absurd. Sherlock’s had much more exciting cases lately and he’s never been … that.”

John shrugged. “Didn’t do anything. But he has been fairly happy these past few days. Or weeks, really. Must be Christmas.”

“Still, something is different. He’s a bit like he used to be when he had just met you,” Lestrade remarked. 

They watched Sherlock examine the bodies. He was bursting with energy, moving quickly, dictating deductions to Lestrade so quickly he barely managed to keep up with him. 

Finally, Sherlock had coherently explained that these two men shared a flat in Camden, that they had dabbled in crystal meth and cocaine, gotten in touch with the wrong people, apparently tried some sort of deal and had made a mistake along the way. Sherlock showed John the same small incisions in their fingertips as he had found in the severed fingers. "They packaged their drugs themselves. These are paper cuts from a special coated paper used to package cheese, normally. Keeps the damp out and doesn’t look suspicious." He stood up, rubbing his hands. “The woman’s body should be at the flat. These two men were blackmailed and came here to deliver something. Possibly money, probably drugs. Here,” he held out a small strip of paper to Lestrade. “They were not entirely stupid.”

A Camden address was written on it, a black cross right next to it. “Their ‘lab’.”

He stood up and leaned close to John. "You won't need your gun after all. This is bigger than us."

“But we still don’t know who killed them,” Lestrade interrupted him, a little flustered. 

“How many options are there, Lestrade? Get your people down there and then hand over the case to the Drugs Directorate. They’ll know about the issue with the Levamisole contaminated cocaine which has been a bit of an issue lately. I think we’ve found the ones who were responsible. They are not the only ones, but there were a few severe cases around Camden and I gather that the big rings did not appreciate that small fish meddled with their market.” He wiped his hands on his trousers and walked away. “Coming?” he called to John over his shoulder. 

The sky was grey by now and the temperature had dropped even further. Sherlock pretended to not be cold, but John could see that his coat did not quite suffice to keep him warm. He was more than relieved when Sherlock’s cab hailing superpower remained intact and he managed to flag one down just as they came to the street. “Where to?” the cabbie asked and John suddenly realised that he would have to lose Sherlock on his way downtown. 

“Umm, Baker Street first.”

Sherlock gave him a questioning look, but John’s look in return seemed answer enough. Knowing that he would probably be sneakily questioned about his appointment downtown, he opted for distracting Sherlock by sitting across from him rather than next to him and rubbing his hands, and later his thighs until Sherlock was a little more than just warmed up again. 

John barely made it to his appointment after Sherlock had insisted that John could not leave him in the state of arousal he was in when they had reached Baker Street. Yet, his knees were weak for an entirely different reason when he entered the tailor’s shop in Soho.


	20. December 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is super fluffy, but looking at current events in the world, I need as much fluff as possible in this fictional world of theirs.

“John?”

“Hmm?” 

“I’ll be gone for a while.”

John looked up at him. Sherlock did not usually announce his departure when he was going somewhere. Apart from cases, that was. 

“Where are you going?” John tried.

“Out.”

“Right.” John grinned and Sherlock scrunched up his nose, pretending to be annoyed. 

“If Lestrade calls, text me.”

“Why would he call? Sherlock? It’s not a case, is it?”

“No. Not exactly.”

John frowned. “You are not investigating the drug rings you talked about yesterday?”

“No.”

“You think several groups were conspiring together to take those three people out?”

“Yes.”

“You did not really solve the case, you know?”

“I’m aware.”

“And yet you’re pleased.”

“I know when to stop fighting.”

John stared at him, wondering at the strange exclamation. Sherlock never really stopped fighting, he was the most stubborn bastard he knew. Except for himself.

“Sherlock?”

“Gotta dash.” 

_Please don’t do anything stupid._

A few minutes later, John received an answer. _Define stupid._

John sighed. _Trying to take drug cartels on without me. Remember, you’re an addict._

_Quite aware, thank you._

_I’m serious. Be careful. Remember that bruise on your face?_

Another few minutes of silence. 

_Not on a case, John. Don’t worry about me._

_Thank you!_

_I wouldn’t. Without you._

John knew it was wrong to be pleased by that but he was. Trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach he got his coat and left for the city. There were socks to be bought and further presents to consider. 

He hummed a low tune to himself when he stopped by a window of a shop selling all kinds of knick knacks, catching movement within and looking up, finding Sherlock staring right back at him. For a long moment they just looked, wide eyed and gripped by the surreal coincidence. Then Sherlock motioned him to wait and walked over to the till to pay for something. He was handed a bag and made his way outside, coming to stand only a couple of inches in front of John.

“Did you follow me?”

John cocked his head to one side, waiting until Sherlock had unconsciously copied him. 

“No,” Sherlock decided, “it really is a coincidence.”

“Did you buy me something?”

“Not you. Mrs Hudson.”

“Hmm,” John nodded. “Me, too, in fact.”

“What did you get?”

“Yarn. She had mentioned she was running out of the midnight blue one.”

“Very considerate.”

“What did you get her?”

“Mittens.”

“Aww, Sherlock,” John bit his lip.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You think I’m …”

“Amazing,” John nodded and then tugged at his lapel to kiss him so he couldn’t complain.

“Dinner?”

“Angelos?”

“Perfect.”

John nodded at Sherlock, watching the light of the street lamp catch in his eye lashes. 

“Yes. Perfect.”


	21. December 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a bit sad that this is almost over XD

Sherlock was nervous. John could tell right from when he had woken up and found Sherlock standing by the window, naked, obviously freezing, staring at his phone. 

“Come back to bed?”

Sherlock jerked, just the slightest bit, but John had seen it nevertheless. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock quickly said. Then he turned towards him and attempted a smile. “Nothing.”

“Come here,” John lifted the covers and Sherlock slipped back into bed, but even though John did his best to warm him up, Sherlock remained nervous, even twitchy. 

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“The postman.”

“It’s 6 am.”

“I know.”

“How long have you been awake?”

“A while.”

“Sherlock.”

“Since 3:42.”

“Go back to sleep.” John kissed his shoulder and closed his eyes, dreading the 7 am alarm. 

When it went off, Sherlock was gone. John sighed and dragged himself out of bed. Sherlock was obviously not in the flat anymore, so John made himself coffee, snatched one of Sherlock’s cookies from the jar, had a quick shower and was on his way to work by 8. 

The day went by slowly and even though he texted Sherlock several times, he did not receive an answer. Finally, just to calm himself down, he stopped asking questions and simply told him to text him whether he was okay or not.

Immediately, Sherlock sent his _okay_.

John forced himself to relax and found that despite it all, his patients were all very well behaved today and that when he left the clinic, he felt happy for no reason at all. He decided to pop into the tailor’s to check on the progress of his suit, trying to decide whether it was going to be the socks or the opportunity for Sherlock to make love to him after taking the suit off him on the 24th. 

The tailor brought him tea and showed him what he had done, and John felt excitement prickling in his fingertips. The suit would be absolutely gorgeous. Darker than his wedding suit had been, with crimson details. He allowed himself a moment to imagine Sherlock’s face when he saw him in it for the first time. 

He thanked the tailor and slowly walked through Soho, still unsure about what to get Sherlock for Sunday after breakfast. The suit would be expensive, but it would be worth it, he knew. And he’d have a very smashing suit for future events that did not call for a dress uniform. He’d have the framed photo for later, but he wanted something else. More than that. He realised that he wanted to surprise Sherlock, and not just once. He wanted to see him unguarded, loved and unable to properly respond, he wanted to see him out of his depth and bashful and all of those things only John got to see him be. 

He stopped in front of a store that his random walk had taken him to. He felt his heart in his throat when he knew that he could not walk past it without going in. Smiling to himself like an idiot, he opened the door to the chime of a small silver bell, and entered the small, stuffy antique store.


	22. December 22

He had not seen Sherlock at all the day before, but he found him in bed next to him when he woke up on Thursday morning. Smiling, John wrapped himself around Sherlock. “Morning.”

“Not yet.”

“Last day of work before I am off.”

“Off where?” Sherlock asked, clearly not thinking straight. 

“Off work, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be home.”

“Good. Yes. Quite,” Sherlock smiled and turned towards him, entangling their limbs further, and fell asleep again.

John guessed that he had been out quite late. “I have to go,” he whispered against Sherlock’s cheek and kissed it, trying to pull away without waking Sherlock up. It took him quite a bit of time and once he was free, he felt glued to the spot, unable to get out of bed yet, watching the sleeping man next to him. He looked exhausted, but also quite relaxed. Over the years, pain and worry had carved deep lines where, when John had met him, smooth arrogance had reigned. His skin used to be white, almost translucent, and now it was freckled, less perfect, more lived in than it had been. The scars of his youth which Sherlock had shown him had been almost invisible, but the scars of the last decade were clearly visible. His back, still showing the signs of the consequences of his absence from London in long angry lines. A small but visible scar against his temple. A long scar where he had caught a knife to his forearm. A smaller one where he had been cut more deeply in his shoulder, mirroring John's injury, though it had not been as dangerous. The bullet wound in his chest. Several more were scattered along his legs, too. John had patched up only half of them, but he knew all of them intimately. The texture, the hardness against his fingertips. All of them had been kissed. Treasured. All of them meant that Sherlock was still alive. 

He felt his vision blur and decided that he needed to go or else he would wake Sherlock up and come late to work. 

When he came home after his shift, he found Sherlock sitting in front of the lit fireplace, wrapping presents. He was very precise about it, having labelled them all quite neatly. For a moment, John thought of the serviettes, which had meant panic, and he prayed that this was not what had driven Sherlock to make an art out of wrapping gifts. 

There were several boxes, most of them bore his name, but others were marked for Mrs Hudson, one for Lestrade, two for Molly and one for Mary. John swallowed hard and leaned down to kiss Sherlock hello. Sherlock, who had been sitting fairly motionless on the floor, took hold of his coat and pulled hard, sending John down and into his arms. For a second, John was too shocked to return the kiss, but when Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat, John wound his arms around him and kissed him deeply. 

At some point, Sherlock must have pushed away the wrapping paper, tape, scissors and ribbons, because John found himself on his back, his clothes pulled away from his body, and Sherlock’s lips on him. He closed his eyes and simply let it happen. If Sherlock had wanted him to participate actively, he would have let him know. Instead, he made love to him with his lips and his hands and his voice and John was breathless and boneless, feeling the warmth of the fire and Sherlock’s body mingling with the draught from the windows and the door he had left half open, adding to the sensory overload he was experiencing.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” he gasped when Sherlock settled down next to him, kissing his throat while his hand was working quickly up and down his length. 

“I love you,” he added, his voice breaking as he came, naked on the living room floor, while Sherlock was still dressed to the nick. 

Sherlock teased him for a while longer, delighted at the shocks that ran through John’s body. Finally, he wiped his hand on John’s hip and sat up, looking down on him with a proud smile. “I know,” he whispered, as if afraid that saying it too loudly would take away from its sincerity. “Welcome home,” he continued after a moment of silence. Then he smiled again and was up, washing his hands in the kitchen before neatly stacking the boxes around the Christmas tree. 

John remained where he was for a little while longer, staring at Sherlock, then at the fire, and at Sherlock again. 

“I am going to fuck you later, just so you know,” John said drowsily from his position on the carpet. 

Sherlock grinned. “Oh, I am counting on it.”

“I just need a moment.”

“Take all the time in the world. You are a rather fetching substitute for a bear rug in front of the fireplace,” Sherlock smirked and pulled out his phone, snapping a photo. 

John lifted one arm and weakly flipped him off. Sherlock laughed and took another photo. 

“It comes with extras,” he said gleefully and John burst out laughing. 

John made good on his promise that night, but it was hard to stay focused on making love to him when all he really wanted was to hold him as closely as possible. Sherlock seemed to be in a similar mood, kissing him deeply, desperately, for what seemed like hours. Even when they came, they kept kissing, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms, sticky and too hot and desperate to crawl into each other, almost. 

John woke up in the middle of the night, finding that he was being spooned by Sherlock, who held him tightly with both arms, one leg thrown over his own as if to make sure that he wouldn’t escape. John was burning with the sensation and the heat that they shared, but he drifted off again, pressing himself a little harder against Sherlock’s body, placing his own hand over Sherlock’s against his chest.


	23. December 23

John stood in the tailor’s dressing room and stared at himself in the mirror. The suit was perfect. The cream colour of his wedding suit had been swapped for darker grey and coal. His trousers were of a deep black that made John wonder whether there would be a red taint in it if he ever stood in the sun with it. A blood coloured handkerchief served as the perfect finish. He looked almost dangerous, and definitely like he had access to places that people usually didn’t. He looked powerful. 

“Fuck,” he murmured at himself. Sherlock wouldn’t know what to do with himself. This was definitely going to have to be the present for tomorrow night, because he could go out in the afternoon and get his hair cut, get a clean shave and waltz into Baker Street wearing, well, this. If he’d do it on Sunday, he wouldn't find a hairdresser and, more importantly, there would be no dinner, at least not with any guests, he was sure of that.

Speaking of, he needed to go shopping after this appointment. He quickly got out of the suit, and waited patiently for it to be packed up and wrapped and sent to Baker Street with a very clear warning that Sherlock was not to touch it in case it came while John was still out. He paid a month’s worth of rent for the suit, knowing that it was worth every penny. 

He tried to remember all the items he had put down on his shopping list which he had conveniently forgotten at home but his thoughts kept going back to what he imagined Sherlock’s reaction would be. 

He was grinning when he walked into their flat, despite the heavy bags in his hands. But his grin disappeared when he found Mycroft sitting in the chair he had been looking forward to letting himself drop into. 

Sherlock sat opposite of him, holding his violin like a shield and his bow like a sword. Any minute now and Mycroft would die the terrible death of wood and horse’s tail hair. John put down the bags and walked right up to Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft entirely, and leaned down to kiss him soundly on the lips. “Hi,” he said. “I hope I managed to get everything on the list.”

“It’s in the kitchen.”

“I know. I was distracted and forgot it.”

“You could have texted.”

“I’m sure I managed to remember…if not I’ll pop down into Tesco’s”

“John,” Mycroft seemed to have had enough of his obvious manoeuvre to get some distance between the two brothers, if only by standing between them. 

“Mycroft,” John said by way of greeting, making sure he sounded like he was saying good bye rather than hello. He simply walked away and took the bags into the kitchen, comparing his purchases with the list. 

“Mummy is heartbroken, really. You should have asked him to join us.”

“He explicitly said that he did not want to spend Christmas with us. You, that is. I’m staying.”

“You’re not coming either?” Mycroft seemed truly offended, and slightly shocked. John wondered whether Sherlock had always spent Christmas with his parents when he could manage. He was also hair-raisingly aware that they must have been speaking about him before he had come home. 

“I’ll be here for Christmas. And no, you are not invited. And neither are our parents.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is John’s Christmas.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” Mycroft said with a strained voice. “You are foregoing an ancient family tradition for your … doctor.”

“Stop being dramatic. John can hear you.”

“John, tell this man that his family wants him home for Christmas.”

John slowly made his way back into the living room. “Yes, his family wants him home. That’s why he’s staying.” He walked back into the kitchen, but he caught a glimpse of how Sherlock looked at him. He felt stupidly proud of himself for the next ten minutes in which nothing but silence reached him from the living room. 

“I best be going then.”

“Yes, best,” Sherlock agreed and ushered him out of the flat as quickly as Mycroft was willing to go. 

A second later, Sherlock was in the kitchen, towering over John. There were no words, he simply stared at him as if he had no idea what might be appropriate to say. Not that Sherlock ever cared about being appropriate, but John could feel that he was out of his depth. One of his wishes was coming true right there in front of him and he did not even wear the suit yet. 

“If you want to see your parents you can do that, of course. I just don’t want your brother here,” John explained and Sherlock shook his head. 

“No. I’ll be here. As I promised.”

John smiled and kissed him quickly before he proceeded to tidy the kitchen. Sherlock disappeared in the living room again and was silent for a long time. When the bell rang, he remained seated as if he had not even heard it. John went downstairs and received his delivery, which he took upstairs into his old room and hid it under the bed. 

“Sherlock. Don’t go upstairs, will you? That’s where I’ll be putting my presents.”

Sherlock nodded, wordlessly. 

“I’ll be out again for a bit, picking something else up.”

Another nod and then a small gesture as if he wanted to reach out and hold him back. So John decided to talk him through it, knowing that if Sherlock was left to his own devices, he might just talk himself out of his initial and correct interpretation of John’s words. 

“You are my family, but you knew that. That’s why you got the Christmas decorations from Harry.”

“Knowing something does not always mean that I understand.”

“I know.” 

“I was never … going to have another family,” Sherlock said quietly. “Nobody ever…believed…”

“I do.”

“I know and it baffles me.”

“I just like your arse, really, but I’ll take the rest of you to keep my access to it open.”

Sherlock snorted and John giggled after realising what he had said. 

“Hmm, and my hip bones,” Sherlock smiled widely.

“Yes, those, too. And your lips. You have gotten quite good at kissing.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“You were rubbish in the beginning.”

“I still made you come,” Sherlock countered and John laughed, stepping forward and right into Sherlock’s arms. 

“That’s because it was you. And your hands.”

“Hmm, you’d still stay if I remained a rubbish kisser?”

“Probably,” John cocked his head to one side to look at him. “I think you have enough redeeming features to keep me around anyway.”

“Like my arse.”

“Like your arse.”

“Right. You wanted to go out?”

“Hmm. Yes. But now…”

Sherlock grinned and kissed him gently. “Be quick.” He did not have to say that he would be waiting for John.

“Start on the goose, will you? Recipe is on the table.”

“How many will it feed?”

“Six.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“Have you invited Molly? I saw you wrapping a gift for her yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“Who else apart from Greg and Mrs Hudson?” He knew Sherlock would not go as far as to invite Mary. 

Sherlock simply smiled and shrugged. “It’s a surprise.”


	24. December 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! <3

Now it was John’s turn to be nervous. He had lain in bed awake for half the night, and woken up repeatedly once he had finally drifted off. Nevertheless, he was wide awake when the alarm went off. Sherlock refused to let him out of bed, apart from using the bathroom, anticipating that John would be too busy during the day to touch him and insisting that, just in case, they both needed to come. Twice. 

In the shower, John felt exhaustion settle in his bones and he regretted not keeping Sherlock’s mouth from wandering south, knowing that his arousal would have kept him awake for longer. 

He made extra strong coffee and looked after the goose which had soaked in seasoning during the night, putting it into the oven, preparing everything they would need to do before starting on the Christmas dinner tomorrow. 

Sherlock happily munched on bacon and eggs which John had prepared while in the kitchen and then settled down on the couch, closing his eyes.

“You don’t get to be tired,” John chided him.

“Why not?”

“You slept. You can clean the flat. Make it presentable.”

“You mean take out the needles so we can have sex under the tree tonight?”

“No sex under the tree,” John reminded him with a grin, throwing the tea towel at him. “I’m going out later, is there anything else we need?”

“Milk? Lubricant?”

“We have enough milk to last us until New Year’s and the amount of lube you are storing in your wardrobe is worrying, so no.”

“Why is it worrying? It was on sale so I bought…”

“Twenty bottles, Sherlock. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

“Well, we went through a whole bottle just this month. And I don’t want to suddenly run out…”

John chuckled, imagining Sherlock’s utter disbelief if John ever announced that they had run out of lube just when he wanted to prepare him. “I know that I would probably not survive this, but I honestly don’t know how you would react if that was ever the case.”

“John!” Sherlock positively whined. 

“Sorry, I’m just considering whether you would settle for a blowjob or …”

“We’d find a way.”

They kept bickering and teasing each other for the next couple of hours while John placed a couple of candles all over the living room, set out a plate with cookies on the coffee table and tried to tidy the living room as much as he was able to. When he was finished, his heart was in his throat. He’d have to leave in half an hour to go to the hairdresser. 

“What do you want for dinner tonight?”

“Sausage,” Sherlock grinned and John playfully punched his shoulder. 

“I’ll be back by six. I’ll bring food. And then you get the first gift.”

“What am I going to do until then?”

“Write me a piece of music?” John joked and kissed Sherlock deeply. “Thank you for having been an absolutely perfect boyfriend these past couple of weeks.”

“John, I am not your boyfriend.”

“Manfriend, then,” John grinned and kissed the disgusted expression off Sherlock’s face. 

His heart beat heavily as he watched his hair being shortened on the sides, his longer hair combed over, and styled in a way that was easy to maintain but which spelled discipline. 

He tried to be very quiet when he came home, conscious of the cold against his neck and behind his ears where his hair had been shaved away. He tip-toed his way upstairs and into his room and changed as quietly as he was able to. He had no way to look at himself apart from a small mirror, but he trusted that everything was in order. 

With a shaky exhale he made his way downstairs again and knocked on the door to their flat. He forced himself to pull his left hand out of his suit pocket and entered the living room. 

Sherlock was freshly showered, his hair pushed back with several curls resisting and forcing themselves back onto his forehead, wearing a suit that fit him so perfectly that John forgot about his own clothes for a moment and simply stared. And then he registered that Sherlock was also staring, eyes wide in disbelief. 

John closed the door behind himself and cleared his throat nervously. “Merry Christmas,” he said, suddenly breathless. 

Sherlock said nothing. He simply stood there, looking at him as if he had no idea how to move forward from this moment on. Finally he inhaled deeply, blinked rapidly, swallowed hard, cleared his throat and inhaled again. “Umm. You … got a suit.”

“So did you,” John smiled at the realisation. Sherlock must have had it made for the occasion.

“But yours was my wish.”

“Yes,” John smiled. “I figured that wearing my wedding suit might be a bit awkward, so I thought I…”

“John,” Sherlock finally moved forward, his hand stretched out in front of him as if to place it across John’s mouth. “Don’t say anything for a moment, will you?”

He frowned but nodded, squaring his shoulders a little. He could see the effect it had on Sherlock, who stopped in his tracks, and openly stared at him again. Then he seemed to catch himself staring, looked flustered and came to stand right in front of him, sucking in a deep breath before dropping down on one knee in front of him. 

John could feel his heart stop and his mind screamed at him that he was only imagining things. He must have fallen and hit his head at some point during the day. Suddenly he found breathing very very difficult. 

“John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock started, his voice breaking on the final syllable. He cleared his throat. “I … I have been a fool. I let you go, more than once, and I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

John’s hands shook too hard to hide it, but there was nothing he could do about that. Nor about the fact that the muscles in his face were suddenly contorting uncontrollably and that he couldn’t see Sherlock clearly for the tears in his eyes. He blinked them away, furious that they should interfere with him being able to see Sherlock look so beautifully out of his depth and simultaneously so sure of what he was doing.

“Please. I know you never thought I would ask that of you, and I understand if you think I am being overly dramatic because of your Christmas, but I’m not. I mean. I am. I see how it’s not something I would usually do, but I am, apparently, doing it.” He looked up at him as if he had run out of words to say and John had to laugh out of sheer happiness and tears spilled and he could see him again and he bit his lip hard, all traces of his pretended discipline washed away. 

“Go on,” he finally whispered, wanting to reach out and tuck an errant curl behind Sherlock’s ear but keeping his hands to himself for now. 

“Oh, right,” Sherlock frowned, then smiled, and then looked just as helpless as before. “Will you do me …,” he stopped again, making John giggle, which in turn distracted him from what he had been wanting to do and he needed a couple of seconds to regroup and run his hands over his pockets before he pushed his left hand into his trouser pocket and produced a simple silver band. “I know you might think me insane for doing this, and I know that me doing this is right on top of that list of things I could give you that might upset you, but still… I thought I might just do it, since you wanted a special …a simple, but special Christmas. Your Christmas.”

“Are you going to ask?” John finally asked gently, unable not to reach out now and touch his face, allowing Sherlock to feel him tremble. 

“John,” Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes reddening. “Since you are already wearing the perfect suit, will you do me the greatest honour and marry me?”

Even though John had known what would happen, the actual words knocked the breath out of him. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock, who remained on his knee, straining upwards against his lips. “Yes, I will marry you, Sherlock. I absolutely will.”

Sherlock pulled back and took John’s left hand in his. Both of their hands were shaking when he clumsily pushed the ring up John’s finger. They watched the slow process breathlessly and when John commented that Sherlock managed to make it look sexy, he looked up at John and laughed and kissed his hand and then rose and kissed him with all the relief he must have been feeling. 

It took them both a while to get over the shock of their respective surprises and when they parted, John kept him close. “Don’t walk away just yet,” he said with a smile and pushed his hand into his trouser pocket. Sherlock looked intrigued but his expression changed rapidly when he saw that John had pulled a ring from his pocket.

“No!” he gasped, disbelief clearly visible on his face. “John.”

“You were quicker than me,” John smiled down on the silver ring that he had bought at the antique shop. It had been a gut reaction to buy it, but he had known that it was perfect. In the window it had lain underneath a magnifying glass, making visible two tiny skulls that were carved into the inside of the ring. Once he had seen it, he knew it was exactly the right size and while it was not a traditional engagement ring, he knew that this was the one. And with this find, his idea to finally propose to Sherlock had solidified. 

“To be honest, I have been thinking about this a lot. And not just now that you have been so happy and … well, a little less intense.” Sherlock tried to look offended but failed miserably, mostly because of the silent tears that dripped down his chin. 

“What I mean is that I love you. Even when you are impossible and arrogant and terrible, I love you. And I am so grateful that you came back for me. And that you stayed with me, even when I seemed to disappear from your life. I am sorry for the pain you had to endure because of my mistakes, but … I think it’s clear that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He exhaled shakily and took Sherlock’s hand before he carefully went down on one knee, too. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry a stupid and grumpy man who promises to try to do better for both of our sakes?”

Sherlock shook his head, but John knew that is was not a negative answer. “You’re just right for me, John. Of course I will marry you." he wiped at his face. "Would be strange it I refused after just asking you, too,” he added with a grin and John laughed and pulled himself up and pushed the ring onto Sherlock’s left ring finger and kissed him with all the emotion he couldn’t put into words. 

There was no dinner that Christmas Eve and there was no Christmas telly, but there was a very pronounced unwrapping of two men wearing very special suits happening in the bedroom, which neither of them left that evening, apart from using the bathroom. 

Once they had calmed down, Sherlock stood naked above the chair onto which he had carefully laid out John's suit, stroking it gently. “Wear it again tomorrow for the dinner?” he asked, not looking at John. 

“Who is that fourth dinner guest you're trying to impress?” John asked in turn and Sherlock smiled to himself and said nothing.


	25. December 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And obviously the final chapter became a real chapter XD  
> thanks for reading! Your comments were very much appreciated; every single one. I hope all of you are happy and safe this holiday season. Take care of yourself and each other!  
> xx

When John woke up he felt hungry. And very very happy. 

He lifted his left hand to his face in order to see whether Sherlock’s ring was still there. It was and it looked remarkable on his finger. Not like his wedding band had, somehow off, always new, always something to worry about, in a way. He felt none of these things now, looking at the ring that must have cost about as much as his suit had. While he was fairly bad at guessing the value of jewellery, he knew it was worth a lot of money. 

“John?” Sherlock rolled onto his side and blinked at him with tired eyes.

“Yes, future husband,” John smiled and turned to look at him. 

“You’re happy?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“You?”

“More than I ever thought possible.”

John bit his lip. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sherlock moved forward and pulled John into his arms. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock. And thank you. Thank you for making this Christmas the absolute best Christmas.”

“You haven’t gotten your real gift yet.”

“Oh, I think I’ll be a tiny little bit less excited about the new set of tea towels than you getting down on your knee.”

“John Watson, making everything sound dirty.”

John grinned. “I wouldn’t say it like that if you weren’t particularly talented at that down on one knee business.”

Sherlock shut him up with a kiss. 

“Where did you find the ring?” Sherlock asked half an hour and a very enjoyable orgasm later. 

“Second hand antique store. I’m sure there is a very intriguing history attached to this ring. And if there isn’t, please don’t tell me,” John chuckled. “But now I need to give you something else before breakfast, because it’s a tradition.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock smiled. “But it can be.”

“Well, you are getting a small present before breakfast so hereby I announce it a tradition which shall exist from today on.”

“Fine, but I thought you had already given me that,” he pointed at his soft cock. 

“Something that’ll last you a little longer than a tired blowjob,” John chuckled. “Stay here!” 

He got up to get the box into which he had crammed five different pairs of socks. All of them overprized, but too ridiculous to pass up. 

Sherlock sat on the bed expectantly and shook the box before opening it. “You forbade me from asking for socks.”

“I know. And these are stockings, not socks. But I found these and thought they were perfect.”

Sherlock smiled happily as he opened the box and upended the contents onto the bed. And then his smile turned into a different expression. He looked up at John. “Wha … where did you find …?”

John grinned. “Harrods.”

“You went into Harrods before Christmas.”

“Before the sing-along. That’s how much I love you.”

Sherlock picked up each pair in turn. The first pair was a simply black with yellow honey bees swarming all over them. The second pair had little magnifying glasses. The third was dark red – a very similar red to the corresponding parts of John’s suit. The fourth was one single bee stitched onto the sides of the stocking, invisible under trousers. Around each stocking of the fifth pair the chemical structure of α-Neo-endorphin was embroidered. John was particularly proud of that one. 

Sherlock was silent for a long time, having laid out all pairs in front of him, running long fingers along them in turn. 

When John realised that Sherlock really did not know what to say, he ruffled his hair and climbed off the bed. “I just bought them to make it easier to sort your socks, really.”

Sherlock looked up and John could see tears in his eyes which he tried to blink away. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” John swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “I can see that you like them.”

Crying over socks. It had come to this. They would both be an emotional mess once their guests arrived. 

He pulled on his own pyjama bottoms which he never really wore, and stole one of Sherlock’s t-shirts. Then he pulled on woollen socks and made his way into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock showed up in the door, looking a bit guilty. “I’m sorry. I wanted to make you breakfast.”

John smiled and kissed him. “Go ahead, I’ll just go and get the rest of the presents.”

When he came down again, Sherlock had laid out fresh bread, apparently self-made marmalade, he had peeled several oranges and just put down a plate with lots of different cheeses. There was fresh coffee, too. Sherlock pushed John into a chair before he sat down, too. They ate in silence, though they watched each other with wide eyes as if they couldn’t quite believe that they were really going through with it. 

Since the bodies in Hampstead Heath Sherlock hadn’t talked of any cases, nor asked for one, nor complained of boredom. He had been nervous, but John guessed that it was the suit that he had been waiting for. The engagement suit, which looked so indecently good on him that he wanted Sherlock to wear it only at home. He smiled at the orange he was currently eating.

“When do we open the rest of the presents?” Sherlock asked suddenly, something like child-like excitement bubbling over.

“After breakfast.”

“When is that?”

“When we’ve cleaned up.”

Sherlock immediately started putting things away and John sipped coffee, grinning. His eyes clung to the ring on Sherlock’s finger and his heart thumbed heavily in his chest. Slowly, he understood that their dinner would simultaneously be their engagement party. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we just keep the rings?”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean, keep? Of course we keep them.”

“As wedding rings, once we get married.”

Sherlock stood very still for a moment before he was suddenly all nervous movement and he disappeared in the bedroom and returned, typing furiously on his phone.

“Cancelling an order?” John asked, in equal parts amused and heartbroken. “I didn’t mean …”

“No, you’re right. Our rings are perfect. I had not considered that you would have a ring for me, too, and then I just forgot.”

“Because you were distracted.”

Sherlock stopped typing to look at him with a half-smile. “Pretty boy,” Sherlock shrugged apologetically and John laughed. 

“Wait,” he suddenly realised what Sherlock had done. “If you are cancelling the order now, you ordered them before you proposed to me yesterday.”

“I was … hopeful?” Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed but John felt nothing but love. 

“I love you,” he simply said and then helped Sherlock clean up the table. Then he built a fire in the fireplace, put on some Christmas music and finally settled down in his chair, watching Sherlock scan the presents under the tree. 

“Open yours first,” John encouraged him, smiling when he thought about how perfect the framed photo was, really. 

Sherlock seemed to think so, too, because he looked at the photo for a long time before he carefully set it down. Then he handed John a large box which John carefully unwrapped, feeling almost sorry to dismantle Sherlock’s artistic endeavour. When he opened it, he laughed. Inside it was a framed photo - _the_ photo he had taken of them after kissing John almost to orgasm. He blushed just looking at it. 

It had turned out exactly like he had imagined it would. They both looked flustered, incredibly turned on and very much in love. 

“Bedroom,” he decided. “Now. Nobody will see this apart from us.”

“I concur,” Sherlock grinned and handed John another box. 

John had no idea what Sherlock might have gotten him, so his heart was in his throat when he opened the box, finding a smaller box inside. When he opened that, he found a lot of bubble wrap. After very carefully peeling off layers and layers of it, he found a glass case which held a grey brick, red and yellow cables, cable ties and tape holding it all together.

John stared up at Sherlock. 

“I know it’s … poor taste, maybe, I guess that’s what you might think about it but I held onto it for too long and I want you to have it.”

“Is that from …”

“The pool, yes. I … stole it from forensics. It meant … it meant so much to me.”

John felt goosebumps rise on his arms. 

“You would have died for me. I knew you would kill for me. I mean, you did that very early on. But the bomb,” Sherlock scratched his head as if considering whether to go on or not. “The bomb means that you would die for me.”

“You kept it all those years?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“It’s not what I expected.”

“Are you angry?”

“No,” John huffed and shook his head. “No. I’m not angry. I’m amazed.”

“You can do with it what you will, but I thought that it would be good to tell you. That I had this. What it means. That I would do the same for you.”

John exhaled shakily. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“There’s something else, something more traditional,” Sherlock seemed glad to move on, even though John was sure that he had his reasons for wanting to give it to him now. Maybe the engagement had allowed him to consider that he could let go of things that he felt connected them otherwise. 

Sherlock handed him a letter sized parcel and John opened it with a smile. He expected a magazine of some sort. What he found was a binder with sheet music. Hand written sheet music.

“Sherlock?” John stared at him in disbelief. “Please don’t tell me you wrote that while I was gone yesterday.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, I’m not that quick at composing music. It’s yours, though. Music I wrote … about you.”

“You’re kidding!”

“It was very difficult not to tell you, because you mentioned Irene and then yesterday, you joked about it.”

“You’re unbelievable, Sherlock.”

“So I did okay?”

John laughed, got up and pulled Sherlock to his feet. “Fucking amazing,” he smiled and kissed him deeply. 

They started on the Christmas dinner, stealing kisses in between preparing food and setting the table and then they both helped each other into their respective suits, which included a lot more kissing than strictly necessary. 

When the bell rang, they both had to straighten out their clothes, breathe in deeply and calm their hearts. Lestrade strode in with a bottle of whisky and a large bag which he handed Sherlock before he plopped down on the couch. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic. It’s Christmas Day, for Christ’s sake…”

Just when John wanted to respond, Mrs Hudson showed up, looking somewhat ruffled, but wearing her best dress, kissing both Sherlock and John on the cheek before sitting down next to Lestrade, agreeing with him on the traffic. It was only Sherlock’s stare that told John that she wasn’t talking about cars. 

He blushed and disappeared in the kitchen, pouring wine and taking the bird out of the oven. 

Molly showed up only a few minutes later and happily accepted a glass of wine. She looked somewhat expectantly at Sherlock and John wasn’t sure whether she remembered the disastrous Christmas as vividly as he did. 

Sherlock invited them all to the table with a sombre voice. He seemed entirely normal, if a little less distant and awkward than he usually would when more than two people were present around him. Then he told John to come and sit down, explaining that he would serve the food. Molly’s eyebrows rose very high and Lestrade openly grinned at Sherlock. 

Mrs Hudson just smiled like she knew that things were going alright and John was very much aware of the one untaken seat at their table. Judging from Sherlock’s potentially but not really upsetting gifts, it would not be someone that John did not want to see. 

When the doorbell rang again, Sherlock excused himself and went to open the door. John was anxious and sipped on his wine, expecting anybody from Prince Harry to the Prime Minister of Canada to enter their flat, but he found himself truly surprised when he saw that it was Major Sholto who stepped into the room, followed by Sherlock who took his coat and closed the door behind him. 

“James?” John was on his feet, standing to attention automatically, upsetting his glass, catching it distractedly. He could see Sherlock flush behind his former commander, but John decided not to think about the implication thereof and concentrated on the fact that Sherlock had invited the one person that he had been publically and obviously jealous of. 

“John, it’s good to see you.”

They shook hands and John felt himself beam up at him, smiling as he showed him to his seat, introduced him to all the guests, though they were all painfully aware of who he was, added a few titbits about how much he admired him and then turned to Sherlock. 

“Thank you for all of this, Sherlock. Really.” 

Sherlock sat down, raised his glass and cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming here today, especially after you have endured a previous Christmas party that was everything but…merry.”

He looked at John with a warm smile and John could see Molly blush lightly. Lestrade hadn’t stopped grinning and Mrs Hudson was all ears. 

“I have invited you here because I think of all people, you are the most important ones to us, and to John in particular. Because he wanted a normal Christmas, and that’s supposed to be spent with the people you love, and I know John loves you all very much.” Sherlock stared down at the table, unable to look at anyone directly. John reached out and took his hand.

“Oh my god,” Molly whispered audibly, elbowing Lestrade in the side.

“Yes, Molly. Congratulations. You have observed correctly. John and I, we … got engaged yesterday.”

Molly squealed before pressing her hand across her mouth, Lestrade simply leaned back with a grin, Mrs Hudson seemed teary eyed and James Sholto nodded as if he somehow knew about their engagement. And suddenly John understood. 

“Sherlock!”

“Yes?”

“Is that why you invited James?”

His former commander smiled and shrugged. “I couldn’t quite refuse such a lovely invitation.”

“Lovely?” John asked, more confused than anything. 

“Well, I am required to make sure that the betrothed really do want to go through with the ceremony.”

“Wait, what? I am lost,” Lestrade shook his head, looking from Sherlock to John to Sholto and back. 

“We just have to agree on a date,” Sherlock said, carefully, as if he hoped not to upset John by making decisions without asking him first.

John grinned and squeezed his hand. “Tomorrow would be absolutely fine, if you ask me. Anytime, really.”

“Good, because the paperwork is already sent in. We just need witnesses and a place to do it and we’d be all set.”

“You’ll really marry us?” John knew that his commander had the right to officiate marriages and civil partnerships, but he would never have considered asking him. Yet, of course Sherlock would find a man whom John admired more than few other people in the world to agree to do it for them. 

“I have no objections,” Sholto answered with a smile and raised his glass, prompting a toast, to John and Sherlock, then one to the health of everybody, one to Christmas, one to love and one to friends. By the end of it, they were all teary eyed and glad for the food that John suggested was going cold. 

Hours and several glasses of wine later and after they agreed that maybe they should be sober before making a final decision on the wedding date, they listened to Sherlock play a new piece on the violin. John knew he would find the sheet music to it in Sherlock’s gift and he bit the inside of his cheek throughout the entire performance, trying to keep himself from crying. 

Finally, he found himself side by side with Sholto. “Thank you for coming. I know that after my wedding you might not have been too pleased to be invited to join another potentially crazy party.”

“Oh John, I am very pleased for you. I would never pass judgement on your former wife, but I know that you and Sherlock, you two belong together. I’m honoured that he asked me to be present, if a little more actively, at the beginning of another chapter of your life.”

“I can’t believe he planned all of this while I did not notice anything.”

Lestrade joined them, his grin even wider now than it had been. “You are aware that Sherlock has been carrying around that ring for ages,” he commented, enthusiastically pointing at John’s hand. 

John could see Sherlock decide whether he wanted to say something offensive to Lestrade or not and smiled when he saw him make the decision that remaining silent was a great idea at the moment. 

“There’s presents for everyone. Molly, I know you see Mary every now and then, would you be so kind as to deliver this to her?” Sherlock asked and handed her the present with was marked with Mary’s name. Molly received a new cardigan and a pair of pipettes. Lestrade got a coffee-to-go tumbler with a silly drawing on, undoubtedly something indecent that would only become obvious after a while, and Mrs Hudson got, apart from the yarn and the mittens, a new tea set. 

John made a comment on how it was really a present for Sherlock himself, but she smiled and kissed his cheek and then Sherlock’s and told them all that she was quite happy with the gift. 

Even James Sholto received a parcel from Sherlock, and at first he refused it, but after another glass of wine he opened it and pulled out a framed photo of him and John at John’s wedding. 

“That’s a bit macabre, no?” John asked Sherlock after Sholto remained expressionless for a moment, but then he started grinning and placed it back into the box. 

“No. It is what it is. Both of you saved my life and this is a reminder. Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock simply nodded before picking up his violin and playing another few pieces. Finally, they were all properly tipsy, had eaten too much, laughed too much and all been positively surprised that Sherlock hadn’t offended anyone yet, Sherlock decided that he had enough and told them all to leave.

And yet, they all left with a smile on their faces and John felt entirely at peace with the world when he closed the door behind Mrs Hudson who had wanted to stay to help clean up and who had to almost be forced to leave the flat. 

“Sherlock,” John leaned against the door, watching him look both smashing and very tired in his new suit.

“Yes, John?”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled widely. “Bed?”

“Yes.”

They barely managed to undress before they fell onto the bed and crawled under the covers. Sherlock immediately pulled John close and John smiled against his shoulder. 

“It wasn’t a real Christmas,” John murmured. “It was unreal. It was … unbelievable.”

“Hmm, sentiment,” Sherlock growled and John laughed breathlessly.

“Yeah, fuck sentiment.”

“Hmm.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”


End file.
